THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


YOUNG    LIVES 


BY   THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH:   Some  Characteristics    ($lh  Edition, 

revised). 

ENGLISH  POEMS  (4th  Edition,  revised). 
THE    BOOK-BILLS    OF    NARCISSUS  (3d   Edition,   with  an 

additional  Chapter). 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  :  an  Elegy,  and  other  Poems. 
THE  RELIGION  OF  A  LITERARY  MAN. 
PROSE  FANCIES,  WITH  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 
PROSE  FANCIES  (Second  Series). 
RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEWS:    a    Literary    Log,    1891-1895, 

2  vols.,  crown  Svo. 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  GOLDKN  GIRL.     A  Romance. 
THE  ROMANCE  OF  ZION  CHAPEL. 

THE  WORSHIPPER  OF  THE  IMAGE.     A  Tragic  Fairy  Tale. 

(/«  preparation. ) 
SLEEPING  BEAUTY,  AND  OTHKR  PROSE  FANCIES. 

( In  preparation.) 


YOUNG  LIVES 


JOHN  LANE:  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 

1899 


Copyright, 

Bv  JOHN   LANE 

Ail  ri^hti  rtiirvtd 


THE  UNIVIRSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


College 
Library 

TK 
Y5Z. 

TO 

ALFRED    LEE 

IN     MEMORY    OF    ANGEL 


September, 


-i  ^  -,rM  o^ 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTRR  PAGE 

XVI.  CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  CONCLUDED    ...  119 

XVII.    DOT'S  DECISION 129 

XVIII.  MIKE  AND  HIS  MILLION  POUNDS    .    .    .  142 
XIX.  ON  CERTAIN  ADVANTAGES  OF  A  BACK- 
WATER      151 

XX.    THE  MAN  IN  POSSESSION 161 

XXI.    LITTLE  Miss  FLOWER 169 

XXII.    MIKE'S  FIRST  LAURELS 174 

XXIII.  THE  MOTHER  OF  AN  ANGEL i3i 

XXIV.  AN  ANCIENT  THEORY  OF  HEAVEN      .    .  187 
XXV.  THE   LAST   CONTINUED,  AFTER  A  BRIEF 

INTERVAL 192 

XXVI.  CONCERNING  THE  BEST  KIND  OF  WIFE 

FOR  A  POET 202 

XXVII.    THE  BOOK  OF  ANGELICA 208 

XXVIII.  WHAT  COMES  OF  PUBLISHING  A  BOOK   .  215 

XXIX.    MIKE'S  TURN  TO  MOVE 229 

XXX.    UNCHARTERED  FREEDOM 239 

XXXI.    A  PREPOSTEROUS  AUNT 247 

XXXII.  THE  LITERARY  GENTLEMAN  IN  THE  BACK 

PARLOUR     .....    264 

XXXIII.  "Tins  is  LONDON,  THIS  is  LIFE"  .    .    .  274 

XXXIV.  THE  WITS 285 

XXXV.    BACK  TO  REALITY 294 

XXXVI.  THE  OLD  HOME  MEANWHILE  .  208 


CONTENTS  ix 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXVII.  STAGE  WAITS,  MR.  LAFLIN 31-4 

XXXVIII.  ESTHER  AND  HENRY  ONCE  MORE    .    .    .  324 

XXXIX.  MIKE  AFAR 335 

XL.  A  LEGACY  MORE  PRECIOUS  THAN  GOLD  .  338 

XLL  LABORIOUS  DAYS 352 

XLII.  A  HEAVIER  FOOTFALL 360 

XLIII.  STILL  ANOTHER  CALLER 369 

XLIV.  THE  END  OF  A  BEGINNING 381 


YOUNG    LIVES 


CHAPTER   I 

HARD   YOUNG  HEARTS 

BEHIND  the  Venetian  blinds  of  a  respectable 
middle-class,  fifty-pound-a-year,  "  semi-de- 
tached," "family"  house,  in  a  respectable 
middle-class  road  of  the  little  north-county 
town  of  Sidon,  midway  between  the  trees 
of  wealth  upon  the  hill,  and  the  business 
quarters  that  ended  in  squalor  on  the  bank 
of  the  broad  and  busy  river,  —  a  house  boast- 
ing a  few  shabby  trees  of  its  own,  in  its  damp 
little  rockeried  slips  of  front  and  back  gardens, 
—  on  a  May  evening  some  ten  or  twelve 
years  ago,  a  momentous  crisis  of  contrasts 
had  been  reached. 

The  house  was  still  as  for  a  battle.     It  was 

holding   its   breath    to    hear    what   was    going 

on   in  the  front   parlour,  the    door   of  which 

seemed  to  wear  an  expression  of  being  more 

i 


2  YOUNG  LIVES 

than  usually  closed.  A  mournful  half-light  fell 
through  a  little  stained-glass  vestibule  into  a 
hat-racked  hall,  on  the  walls  of  which  hung 
several  pictures  of  those  great  steamships 
known  as  "  Atlantic  liners  "  in  big  gilt  frames 
—  pictures  of  a  significance  presently  to  be 
noted.  A  beautiful  old  eight-day  clock  ticked 
solemnly  to  the  flickering  of  the  hall  lamp. 
From  below  came  occasionally  a  furtive  creak- 
ing of  the  kitchen  stairs.  The  two  servants 
were  half  way  up  them  listening.  The  stairs 
a  flight  above  the  hall  also  creaked  at  intervals. 
Two  young  girls,  respectively  about  fourteen 
and  fifteen,  were  craning  necks  out  of  night- 
dresses over  the  balusters  in  a  shadowy  angle 
of  the  staircase.  On  the  floor  above  them  three 
other  little  girls  of  gradually  diminishing  ages 
slept,  unconscious  of  the  issues  being  decided 
between  their  big  brother  and  their  eldest 
sister  on  the  one  side,  and  their  father  and 
mother  on  the  other,  in  the  front  parlour 
below. 

That  parlour,  a  room  of  good  size,  was  un- 
ostentatiously furnished  with  good  bourgeois 
mahogany.  A  buxom  mahogany  chiffonier, 
a  large  square  dining-table,  a  black  marble 
clock  with  two  dials,  one  being  a  barometer, 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  3 

three  large  oil  landscapes  of  exceedingly  um- 
brageous trees  and  glassy  lakes,  inoffensively 
uninteresting,  more  Atlantic  liners,  and  a  large 
bookcase,  apparently  filled  with  serried  lines 
of  bound  magazines,  and  an  excellent  Brussels 
carpet  of  quiet  pattern,  were  mainly  responsible 
for  a  general  effect  of  middle-class  comfort, 
in  which,  indeed,  if  beauty  had  not  been  in- 
cluded, it  had  not  been  wilfully  violated,  but 
merely  unthought  of.  The  young  people  for 
whom  these  familiar  objects  meant  a  symbol- 
ism deep-rooted  in  their  earliest  memories 
could  hardly  in  fairness  have  declared  any- 
thing positively  painful  in  that  room  —  except 
perhaps  those  Atlantic  liners ;  their  charges 
against  furniture,  which  was  unconsciously  to 
them  accumulating  memories  that  would  some 
day  bring  tears  of  tenderness  to  their  eyes, 
could  only  have  been  negative.  Beauty  had 
been  left  out,  but  at  least  ugliness  had  not 
been  ostentatiously  called  in.  There  was  no 
bad  taste. 

In  fact,  whatever  the  individual  character 
of  each  component  object,  there  was  included 
in  the  general  effect  a  certain  indefinable  dig- 
nity, which  had  doubtless  nothing  to  do  with 
the  mahogany,  but  was  probably  one  of  those 


4  YOUNG  LIVES 

subtle  atmospheric  impressions  which  a  room 
takes  from  the  people  who  habitually  live 
in  it.  Had  you  entered  that  room  when  it 
was  empty,  you  would  instinctively  have  felt 
that  it  was  accustomed  to  the  occupancy  of 
calm  and  refined  people.  There  was  some- 
thing almost  religious  in  its  quiet.  Some  one 
often  sat  there  who,  whatever  his  common- 
place disguises  as  a  provincial  man  of  business, 
however  inadequate  to  his  powers  the  work 
life  had  given  him  to  do,  provincial  and 
humiliating  as  were  the  formulae  with  which 
narrowing  conditions  had  supplied  him  for 
expression  of  himself,  was  in  his  central  being 
an  aristocrat, — though  that  was  the  very  last 
word  James  Mesurier  would  have  thought  of 
applying  to  himself.  He  was  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, serving  God  and  his  employers  with  stern 
uprightness,  and  bringing  up  a  large  family 
with  something  of  the  Puritan  severity  which 
had  marked  his  own  early  training ;  and,  as  in 
his  own  case  no  such  allowance  had  been 
made,  making  no  allowance  in  his  rigid  ab- 
stract code  for  the  diverse  temperaments  of 
his  children,  —  children  in  whom  certain  quali- 
ties and  needs  of  his  own  nature,  dormant  from 
his  birth,  were  awakening,  supplemented  by 


HARD  YOUNG   HEARTS  5 

the  fuller-fed  intelligence  and  richer  nature 
of  the  mother,  into  expansive  and  rebellious 
individualities. 

It  was  now  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  the 
house  was  thus  lit  and  alive  half-an-hour  be- 
yond the  rigorously  enforced  bed-time.  An 
hour  before,  James  Mesurier  had  been  peace- 
fully engaged  on  the  task  which  had  been 
nightly  with  him  at  this  hour  for  twenty-five 
years,  —  the  writing  of  his  diary,  in  a  shorthand 
which  he  wrote  with  a  neatness,  almost  a  dainti- 
ness, that  always  marked  his  use  of  pen  and  ink, 
and  gave  to  his  merely  commercial  correspon- 
dence and  his  quite  exquisitely  kept  accounts, 
a  certain  touch  of  the  scholar,  —  again  an  air 
of  distinction  in  excess  of,  and  unaccounted  for, 
by  the  nature  of  the  interests  which  it  dignified. 

His  somewhat  narrow  range  of  reading,  had 
you  followed  it  by  his  careful  markings  through 
those  bound  volumes  of  sermons  in  the  book- 
case, bore  the  same  evidence  of  inherited  and 
inadequately  occupied  refinement.  His  life 
from  boyhood  had  been  too  much  of  a  struggle 
to  leave  him  much  leisure  for  reading,  and  such 
as  he  had  enjoyed  had  been  diverted  into  evan- 
gelical channels  by  the  influence  of  a  certain 
pious  old  lady,  with  whom  as  a  young  man  he 


6  YOUNG  LIVES 

had  boarded,  and  for  whose  memory  all  his 
life  he  cherished  a  reverence  little  short  of 
saint-worship. 

The  name  of  Mrs.  Quiggins,  whose  portrait 
had  still  a  conspicuous  niche  among  the  lares  of 
the  household,  —  a  little  thin  silvery  old  widow- 
lady,  suggesting  great  sadness,  much  gentle- 
ness, and  a  little  severity,  —  had  thus  become 
for  the  family  of  James  Mesurier  a  symbol  of 
sanctity,  with  which  a  properly  accredited  saint 
of  the  calendar  could  certainly  not,  in  that 
Protestant  home,  have  competed.  It  was  she 
who  had  given  him  that  little  well-worn  Bible 
which  lay  on  the  table  with  his  letters  and 
papers,  as  he  wrote  under  the  lamplight,  and 
than  which  a  world  full  of  sacred  relics  con- 
tains none  more  sacred.  A  business-like 
elastic  band  encircled  its  covers,  as  a  precau- 
tion against  pages  becoming  loose  with  much 
turning;  and  inside  you  would  have  found 
scarcely  a  chapter  unpencilled,  —  texts  under- 
lined, and  sermons  of  special  helpfulness  noted 
by  date  and  preacher  on  the  margin,  —  the  itine- 
rary of  a  devout  human  soul  on  its  way  through 
this  world  to  the  next. 

The  Bible  and  the  sermons  of  a  certain 
famous  Nonconformist  Divine  of  the  day  were 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  7 

James  Mesurier's  favourite  and  practically  his 
only  reading,  at  this  time;  though  as  a  young 
man  he  had  picked  up  a  fair  education  for  him- 
self, and  had  taken  a  certain  interest  in  modern 
history.  For  novels  he  had  not  merely  dis- 
approval, but  absolutely  no  taste.  Once  in  a 
specially  genial  mood  he  had  undertaken  to 
try  "  Ivanhoc,"  to  please  his  favourite  daugh- 
ter,—  this  night  in  revolt  against  him,  —  and 
in  half-an-hour  he  had  been  surprised  with 
laughter,  sound  asleep.  The  sermon  that  would 
send  him  to  sleep  had  never  been  written,  at  all 
events  by  his  favourite  theologian,  whose  ser- 
mons he  read  every  Sunday  afternoon,  and  an- 
notated with  that  same  loving  appreciation  and 
careful  pencil  with  which  a  scholar  annotates 
some  classic ;  so  true  is  it  that  it  is  we  who 
dignify  our  occupations,  not  they  us. 

Similarly,  James  Mesurier  presided  over  the 
destinies  of  a  large  commercial  undertaking, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  called  rather 
to  direct  an  empire  than  a  business.  You 
would  say  as  he  went  by,  "  There  goes  one 
accustomed  to  rule,  accustomed  to  be  re- 
garded with  great  respect ;  "  but  that  air  had 
been  his  long  before  the  authority  that  once 
more  inadequately  accounted  for  it. 


8  YOUNG   LIVES 

Thus  this  night,  as  he  sat  writing,  his  hand- 
some, rather  small,  iron-grey  head  bent  over 
his  papers,  his  face  somewhat  French  in  char- 
acter, his  short  beard  slightly  pointed ;  distin- 
guished, refined,  severe;  he  had  the  look  of  a 
marshal  of  France  engrossed  with  documents 
of  state. 

The  mother,  who  sat  in  an  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  reading,  was  a  woman  of  about  forty-five, 
with  a  fine  blonde,  aquiline  face,  distinctively 
English,  and  radiating  intelligence  from  its 
large  sympathetic  lines.  She  was  in  some 
respects  so  different  from  her  husband  as  at 
times  to  make  children  precociously  wise  — 
but  nevertheless,  far  from  knowing  everything 
—  wonder  why  she  had  ever  married  their 
father,  for  whom,  at  that  time,  it  would  be 
hypocrisy  to  describe  their  attitude  as  one  of 
love.  To  them  he  was  not  so  much  a  father 
as  the  policeman  of  home, — a  personification 
of  stern  negative  decrees,  a  systematic  thwarter 
of  almost  everything  they  most  cared  to  do. 
He  was  a  sort  of  embodied  "  Thou  shalt  not," 
only  to  be  won  into  acquiescence  by  one  in- 
fluence, —  that  of  the  mother,  whose  married 
life,  as  she  looked  back  on  it,  seemed  to  con- 
sist of  little  else  than  bringing  children  into 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  9 

the  world,  with  a  Christian-like  regularity,  and 
interceding  with  the  father  for  their  varying 
temperaments  when  there. 

Though  it  might  have  been  regarded  as 
certain  beforehand,  that  seven  children  would 
differ  each  from  each  other  in  at  least  as  many 
ways,  it  never  seems  to  have  occurred  to  the 
father  that  one  inflexible  system  for  them  all 
could  hardly  be  wise  or  comfortable.  But,  in- 
deed, like  so  many  parents  similarly  trained 
and  circumstanced,  it  is  questionable  whether 
he  ever  realised  their  possession  of  separate 
individualities  till  they  were  pleaded  for  by  the 
mother,  or  made,  as  on  this  evening,  surprising 
assertion  of  themselves. 

Though  this  system  of  mediation  had  been 
responsible  for  the  only  disagreements  in  their 
married  life,  there  had  never  been  any  long 
or  serious  difference  between  husband  and 
wife ;  for,  in  spite  of  natures  so  different,  they 
loved  each  other  with  that  love  which  is  given 
us  for  the  very  purpose  of  such  situations,  the 
love  that  no  strain  can  snap,  the  love  that 
reconciles  all  such  disparities.  Though  Mary 
Mesurier  had  also  been  brought  up  among 
Nonconformists,  and  though  the  conditions  of 
her  youth,  like  her  husband's,  had  been  far 


io  -YOUNG  LIVES 

from  adequate  to  the  demands  of  her  nature, 
yet  her  religion  had  been  of  a  gentler  char- 
acter, broadening  instead  of  narrowing  in  its 
effects,  and  had  concerned  itself  less  with 
divinity  than  humanity.  Her  home  life,  if 
humble,  had  been  genial  and  rich  in  love, 
and  there  had  come  into  it  generous  influ- 
ences from  the  outer  world,' — books  with  more 
of  the  human  beat  in  them  than  is  to  be  found 
in  sermons ;  and  particularly  an  old  travelled 
grandfather  who  had  been  regarded  as  the 
rolling  stone  of  his  family,  but  in  whom,  at 
all  events,  failure  and  travel  had  developed  a 
great  gentleness  and  understanding  of  the 
human  creature,  which  in  long  walks  and  talks 
with  his  little  grand-daughter  somehow  passed 
over  into  her  young  character,  and  proved  the 
best  legacy  he  could  have  left  her.  Through 
him  too  was  encouraged  a  native  love  of 
poetry,  of  which  in  her  childhood  her  mem- 
ory acquired  a  stock  which  never  failed  her, 
and  which  had  often  cheered  her  lonely  hours 
by  successive  cradles.  She  had  a  fine  natural 
gift  of  recitation,  and  in  evening  hours  when 
the  home  was  particularly  united  in  some 
glow  of  visitors  or  birthday  celebration,  she 
would  be  persuaded  to  recall  some  of  those 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  n 

old  songs  and  simple  apologues,  with  such 
charm  that  even  her  husband,  to  whom  verse 
was  naturally  an  incomprehensible  triviality, 
was  visibly  softened,  and  perhaps,  deep  in  the 
sadness  of  his  silent  nature,  moved  to  a  pass- 
ing realisation  of  a  certain  something  kind 
and  musical  in  life  which  he  had  strangely 
missed. 

This  greater  breadth  of  temperament  and 
training  enabled  Mary  Mesurier  to  under- 
stand and  make  allowances  for  the  narrower 
and  harder  nature  of  her  husband,  whom  she 
learnt  in  time  rather  to  pity  for  the  bleakness 
of  his  early  days,  than  to  condemn  for  their 
effect  upon  his  character.  He  was  strong, 
good,  clever,  and  handsome,  and  exception- 
ally all  those  four  good  reasons  for  loving  him ; 
and  the  intellectual  sympathy,  the  sharing  of 
broader  interests,  which  she  sometimes  missed 
in  him,  she  had  for  some  three  or  four  years 
come  to  find  in  her  eldest  son,  who,  to  his 
father's  bewilderment  and  disappointment,  had 
reincarnated  his  own  strong  will,  in  connec- 
tion with  literary  practices  and  dreams  which 
threatened  to  end  in  his  becoming  a  poet, 
instead  of  the  business  man  expected  of  him, 
for  which  development  that  love  of  poetry 


12  YOUNG  LIVES 

in  one  parent,  and  a  certain  love  of  books 
in  both,  was  no  doubt  to  some  degree  guiltily 
responsible. 

James  Mesurier,  as  we  have  said,  was  no 
judge  of  poetry;  and,  had  he  been  so,  a 
reading  of  his  son's  early  effusions  would 
have  made  him  still  more  obdurate  in  the 
choice  for  him  of  a  commercial  career;  but 
on  general  principles  he  was  quite  sufficiently 
firm  against  any  but  the  most  non-committing, 
leisure-hour  flirtation  with  the  Muse.  The 
mother,  while  agreeing  with  the  father's  main 
proposition  of  the  undesirability,  nay,  impos- 
sibility, of  literature  as  a  livelihood,  —  had  not 
the  great  and  successful  Sir  Walter  himself 
described  it  as  a  good  walking-stick,  but  a 
poor  crutch;  a  stick  applied,  since  its  first 
application  as  an  image,  to  the  shoulders  of 
how  many  generations  of  youthful  genius,  — 
was  naturally  more  sympathetic  towards  her 
son's  ambition,  and  encouraged  it  to  the  extent 
of  helping  from  her  housekeeping  money  the 
formation  of  his  little  library,  even  occasion- 
ally proving  successful  in  winning  sums  of 
money  from  the  father  for  the  purchase  of 
some  book  specially,  as  the  young  man  would 
declare,  necessary  for  his  development. 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  13 

As  this  little  library  had  outgrown  the  ac- 
commodation of  the  common  rooms,  a  daring 
scheme  had  been  conceived  between  mother 
and  son,  —  no  less  than  that  he  should  have  a 
small  room  set  apart  for  himself  as  a  study. 
When  first  broached  to  the  father,  this  scheme 
had  met  with  an  absolute  denial  that  seemed  to 
promise  no  hope  of  further  consideration ;  but 
the  mother,  accepting  defeat  at  the  time,  had 
tried  again  and  again,  with  patient  dexterity 
at  favourable  moments,  till  at  last  one  proud 
day  the  little  room,  with  its  bookshelves,  a 
cast  of  Dante,  and  a  strange  picture  or  two, 
was  a  beautiful,  significant  fact  —  all  ready  for 
the  possible  visitation  of  the  Muse. 

In  such  ways  had  the  mother  negotiated 
the  needs  of  all  her  children ;  though  the 
youth  of  the  rest  —  save  the  eldest  girl,  whose 
music  lessons  had  meant  a  battle,  and  whose 
growing  attractiveness  for  the  boys  of  the 
district,  and  one  in  particular,  was  presently 
to  mean  another  —  made  as  yet  but  small 
demands.  In  one  question,  however,  periodi- 
cally fruitful  of  argument,  even  the  youngest 
was  becoming  interested,  —  the  question  of  the 
visits  to  the  household  of  the  various  friends 
and  playmates  of  the  children.  To  these,  it 


14  YOUNG  LIVES 

must  be  admitted,  James  Mesurier  was  apt  to 
be  hardly  less  of  a  figure  of  fear  than  to  his 
own  children ;  for,  apart  from  the  fact  that 
such  inroads  from  without  were  apt  to  disturb 
his  few  quiet  evening  hours  with  rollicking  and 
laughter,  he,  being  entirely  unsocial  in  his 
own  nature,  had  a  curious  idea  that  the  family 
should  be  sufficient  to  itself,  and  that  the  de- 
sire for  any  form  of  entertainment  outside  it 
was  a  sign  of  dissatisfaction  with  God's  gifts 
of  a  good  home,  and  generally  a  frivolity  to 
be  discouraged. 

As  a  boy  he  had  grown  up  without  com- 
panions, and  as  a  man  had  remained  lonely, 
till  he  had  met  in  his  wife  the  one  comrade 
of  his  days.  What  had  been  good  enough 
for  their  father  should  be  good  enough  for 
his  children,  was  a  formula  which  he  ap- 
plied all  round  to  their  bringing  up,  curi- 
ously forgetful,  for  a  man  at  heart  so  just, 
of  the  pleasure  one  would  have  expected  it 
to  be  to  make  sure  that  the  errors  of  his 
own  training  were  not  repeated  in  that  of 
his  offspring.  But,  indeed,  there  was  in  him 
constitutionally  something  of  the  Puritan  sus- 
picion of,  and  aversion  from,  pleasure,  which 
it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  consider  as 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  15 

the  end  of,  or,  indeed,  as  a  considerable  ele- 
ment of  existence.  Life  was  somehow  too 
serious  for  play,  spiritually  as  well  as  mate- 
rially; and  much  work  and  a  little  rest  was 
the  eternal  and,  on  the  whole,  salutary  lot  of 
man. 

Such  were  some  of  the  conditions  among 
which  the  young  Mesuriers  found  themselves, 
and  of  which  their  impatience  had  become 
momentously  explosive  this  February  evening. 

For  some  days  there  had  been  an  energetic 
simmer  of  rebellion  among  the  four  elder  chil- 
dren against  a  new  edict  of  early  rising  which 
was  surely  somewhat  arbitrary.  Early  rising 
was  one  of  James  Mesurier's  articles  of  faith ; 
and  he  was  always  up  and  dressed  by  half-past 
six,  though  there  was  no  breakfast  till  eight, 
and  absolutely  no  necessity  for  his  rising  at 
that  hour  beyond  his  own  desire.  There  was 
still  less,  indeed  none  at  all,  for  his  children  to 
rise  thus  early ;  but  nevertheless  he  had  recently 
decreed  that  such,  for  the  future,  must  be  the 
rule.  The  rule  fell  heaviest  upon  the  sisters, 
for  the  elder  brother  had  always  enjoyed  a  cer- 
tain immunity  from  such  edicts.  His  sense  of 
justice,  however,  kindled  none  the  less  at  this 
final  piece  of  tyranny.  He  blazed  and  fumed 


16  YOUNG   LIVES 

indignantly  on  behalf  of  his  sisters,  in  the  sanc- 
tuary of  that  little  study, —  a  spot  where  the 
despot  seldom  set  foot;  and  out  of  this  com- 
paratively trivial  cause  had  sprung  a  mighty 
resolution,  which  he  and  she  whom  he  proudly 
honoured  as  "  sister  and  friend  "  had,  after  some 
girding  of  the  loins,  repaired  to  the  front  parlour 
this  evening  to  communicate. 

They  had  entered  somewhat  abruptly,  and 
stood  rather  dramatically  by  the  table  on 
which  the  father  was  writing,  —  the  son  with 
dark  set  face,  in  which  could  be  seen  both  the 
father  and  mother,  and  the  daughter,  timid  and 
close  to  him,  resolutely  keeping  back  her  tears, 
a  slim  young  copy  of  the  mother. 

"Well,  my  dears?"  said  the  father,  looking 
up  with  a  keen,  rather  surprised  glance,  and 
in  a  tone  which  qualified  with  some  severity 
the  "  my  dears." 

The  son  had  had  some  exceedingly  fine  be- 
ginnings in  his  head,  but  they  fled  ignomini- 
ously  with  the  calm  that  was  necessary  for 
their  successful  delivery,  and  he  blurted  at  once 
to  the  point. 

"  We  have  come  to  say  that  we  are  no  longer 
comfortable  at  home,  and  have  decided  to  leave 
it." 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  17 

"  Henry,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  hastily, 
"  what  do  you  mean,  how  can  you  be  so  un- 
grateful ?  " 

"  Mary,  my  dear,"  interrupted  the  father, 
"  please  leave  the  matter  to  me."  Then  turn- 
ing to  the  son :  "  What  is  this  you  are  saying? 
I  'm  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  mean  that  Esther  and  I  have  decided  to 
leave  home  and  live  together;  because  it  is 
impossible  for  us  to  live  here  any  longer  in 
happiness  —  " 

"  On  what  do  you  propose  to  live?  " 

"  My  salary  will  be  sufficient  for  the 
present." 

"  Sixty  pounds  a  year !  " 

"Yes!" 

"  And  may  I  ask  what  is  wrong  with  your 
home?  You  have  every  comfort  —  far  more 
than  your  mother  or  father  were  accustomed 
to." 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  "  echoed  the  mother. 

"Yes,  we  know  you  are  very  good  and  kind, 
and  mean  everything  for  our  good ;  but  you 
don't  understand  other  needs  of  our  natures, 
and  you  make  no  allowance  for  our  individu- 
alities —  " 

"  Indeed  !      Individualities  —  I    should    like 


1 8  YOUNG  LIVES 

you  to  have  heard  what  my  father  would  have 
said  to  talk  about  individualities.  A  rope's 
end  would  have  been  his  answer  to  that  —  " 

"  It  would  have  been  a  very  silly  one,  and  no 
argument." 

"  It  would  have  been  effective,  at  all  events." 

"  Not  with  me  —  " 

"  Well,  please  don't  bandy  words  with  me,  sir. 
If  you,"  particularly  addressing  his  son,  "wish 
to  go  —  then  go;  but  remember  that  once  you 
have  left  your  father's  roof,  you  leave  it  for 
ever.  As  for  your  sister,  she  has  no  power  to 
leave  her  mother  and  father  without  my  con- 
sent, and  that  I  shall  certainly  withhold  till 
she  is  of  a  proper  age  to  know  what  is  best  for 
herself—" 

"  She  will  go  then  without  your  consent," 
defiantly  answered  the  son. 

"  Oh,  Henry,  for  shame !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Mesurier. 

"Mother  dear,  I'm  sorry,  —  we  don't  mean 
to  be  disrespectful  or  undutiful,  —  but  father's 
petty  tyrannies  are  more  than  we  can  bear. 
He  objects  to  the  friends  we  care  for;  he 
denies  us  the  theatre  —  " 

"  Most  certainly,  and  shall  continue  to  do  so. 
I  have  never  been  inside  a  theatre  in  my  life ; 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  19 

nor,  with  my  consent,  shall  any  child  of  mine 
enter  one  of  them." 

"  You  can  evidently  know  little  about  them 
then,  and  you'd  be  a  much  finer  man  if  you 
had,"  flashed  out  the  son. 

"  Your  sitting  in  judgment  on  your  father  is 
certainly  very  pretty,  I  must  say,"  —  answered 
the  father,  —  "  very  pretty ;  and  I  can  only  hope 
that  you  will  not  have  cause  to  regret  it  some 
future  day.  But  I  cannot  allow  you  to  disturb 
me,"  for,  with  something  of  a  pang,  Henry  no- 
ticed signs  of  agitation  amid  the  severity  of  his 
parent,  though  the  matter  was  too  momentous 
for  him  to  allow  the  indulgence  of  pity. 

"  You  have  been  a  source  of  much  anxiety 
to  your  mother  and  me,  a  child  of  many 
prayers;  "  the  father  continued.  "Whether  it 
is  the  books  you  read,  or  the  friends  you  asso- 
ciate with,  that  are  responsible  for  your  strange 
and,  to  my  thinking,  impious  opinions,  I  do  not 
know;  but  this  I  know,  that  your  influence 
on  your  sister  has  not  of  late  been  for  good, 
and  for  her  sake,  and  the  sake  of  your  young 
sisters,  it  may  perhaps  be  well  that  your  influ- 
ence in  the  home  be  removed  — 

"  Oh,  James,"  exclaimed  the  wife. 

"  Mary,  my  dear,  you  must  let  me  finish.     If 


20  YOUNG  LIVES 

Henry  will  go,  go  he  shall;  but  if  he  still 
stays,  he  must  learn  that  I  am  master  in  this 
house,  and  that  while  I  remain  so,  not  he,  but 
I  shall  dictate  how  it  is  to  be  carried  on." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Esther  ventured  to 
lift  the  girlish  tremor  of  her  voice. 

"  But,  father,  if  you  '11  forgive  my  saying  so, 
I  think  it  would  be  best  for  another  reason  for 
us  to  go.  There  are  too  many  of  us.  We 
have  n't  room  to  grow.  We  get  in  each  other's 
way.  And  then  it  would  ease  you ;  it  would 
be  less  expense  —  " 

"  When  I  complain  of  having  to  support  my 
children,  it  will  be  time  to  speak  of  that  — " 

"  But  you  have  complained,"  hotly  inter- 
rupted the  son ;  "  you  have  reproached  us 
many  a  time  for  what  we  cost  you  for  clothes 
and  food  —  " 

"  Yes,  when  you  have  shown  yourselves  un- 
grateful for  them,  as  you  do  to-night  —  " 

"  Ungrateful !  For  what  should  we  be  grate- 
ful? That  you  do  your  bare  duty  of  feeding 
and  clothing  us,  and  even  for  that,  expect,  in 
my  case  at  all  events,  that  I  shall  prove  so 
much  business  capital  invested  for  the  future. 
Was  it  we  who  asked  to  come  into  the  world? 
Did  you  consult  us,  or  did  you  beget  us  for 


HARD   YOUNG   HEARTS  21 

anything  but  your  own  selfish  pleasure,  without 
a  thought  —  " 

Henry  got  no  further.  His  father  had  grown 
white,  and,  with  terrible  anger  pointed  to  the 
door. 

"  Leave  the  room,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and  to- 
morrow leave  my  house  for  ever." 

The  son  was  not  cowed.  He  stood  with  an 
unflinching  defiance  before  the  father,  in  whom 
he  forgot  the  father  and  saw  only  the  tyrant. 
For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  some  unnatural 
blow  would  be  struck ;  but  so  much  of  pain  was 
spared  the  future  memory  of  the  scene,  and 
saying  only,  "  It  is  true  for  all  that,"  he  turned 
and  left  the  room.  The  sister  followed  him  in 
silence,  and  the  door  closed. 

Mother  and  father  looked  at  each  other. 
They  had  brought  up  children,  they  had  suf- 
fered and  toiled  for  them,  —  that  they  should 
talk  to  them  like  this !  Mrs.  Mesurier  came 
over  to  her  husband,  and  put  her  arm  tenderly 
on  his  shoulder. 

"  Never  mind,  dear.  I  'm  sure  he  did  n't 
mean  to  talk  like  that.  He  is  a  good  boy  at 
heart,  but  you  don't  understand  each  other." 

"  Mary  dear,  we  will  talk  no  more  of  it 
to-night,"  he  replied ;  "  I  will  try  and  put  it 


22  YOUNG   LIVES 

from  me.     You  go  to  bed.     I  will  finish  my 
diary,  and  be  up  in  a  few  minutes." 

When  he  was  alone,  he  sat  still  a  little  while, 
with  a  great  lonely  pain  on  his  face,  and  almost 
visibly  upon  it  too  the  smart  of  the  wounded 
pride  of  his  haughty  nature.  Never  in  his  life 
had  he  been  spoken  to  like  that,  —  and  by  his 
own  son !  The  pang  of  it  was  almost  more 
than  he  could  bear.  But  presently  he  had  so 
far  mastered  himself  as  to  take  up  his  pen  and 
continue  his  writing.  When  that  was  finished, 
he  opened  his  Bible  and  read  his  wonted 
chapter.  It  was  just  the  simple  twenty-third 
psalm :  "  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,  I  shall 
not  want."  It  was  his  favourite  psalm,  and 
always  had  a  remarkable  tranquillising  effect 
upon  him.  James  Mesurier's  faith  in  God  was 
very  great.  Then  he  knelt  down  and  prayed 
in  silence,  —  prayed  with  a  great  love  for  his 
disobedient  children ;  and,  when  he  rose  from 
his  knees,  anger  and  pain  had  been  washed 
away  from  his  face,  and  a  serenity  that  is  not 
of  this  world  was  there  instead. 


CHAPTER   II 

CONCERNING  THOSE  "  ATLANTIC  LINERS  "  AND 
AN   OLD   DESK 

OF  all  battles  in  this  complicated  civil  warfare 
of  human  life,  none  is  more  painful  than  that 
being  constantly  waged  from  generation  to 
generation  between  young  and  old,  and  none, 
it  would  appear,  more  inevitable,  or  indeed 
necessary.  "  The  good  gods  sigh  for  the  cost 
and  pain,"  and  as,  growing  older  ourselves,  we 
become  spectators  of  such  a  conflict,  with  eyes 
able  to  see  the  real  goodness  and  truth  of  both 
combatants,  how  often  must  we  exclaim :  "  Oh, 
just  for  a  little  touch  of  sympathetic  compre- 
hension on  either  side !  " 

And  yet,  after  all,  it  is  from  the  older  gene- 
ration that  we  have  a  right  to  expect  that.  If 
that  vaunted  "  experience  "  with  which  they 
are  accustomed  to  extinguish  the  voice  of  the 
young  means  anything,  it  should  surely  include 
some  knowledge  of  the  needs  of  expanding 


24  YOUNG   LIVES 

youth,  and  be  prepared  to  meet  them,  not  in 
a  spirit  of  despotic  denial,  but  in  that  of 
thoughtful  provision.  The  young  cannot  afford 
to  be  generous,  even  if  they  possess  the  neces- 
sary insight.  It  would  mean  their  losing  their 
battle,  —  a  battle  very  necessary  for  them  to 
win. 

Sometimes  it  would  seem  that  a  very  little 
kindly  explanation  on  the  part  of  the  elder 
would  set  the  younger  at  a  point  of  view  where 
greater  sympathy  would  be  possible.  The 
great  demand  of  the  young  is  for  some  form 
of  poetry  in  their  lives  and  surroundings ;  and 
it  is  largely  the  fault  of  the  old  if  the  poetry 
of  one  generation  is  almost  invariably  the  prose 
of  the  next. 

Those  "Atlantic  liners"  are  an  illustration 
of  my  meaning.  To  the  young  Mesuriers  they 
were  hideous  chromo-lithographs  in  vulgar  gilt 
frames,  arbitrary  defacements  of  home ;  but 
undoubtedly  even  they  would  have  found  a 
tolerant  tenderness  for  them,  had  they  realised 
that  they  represented  the  poetry  —  long  since 
renounced  and  put  behind  him  —  of  James 
Mesurier's  life.  He  had  come  of  a  race  of 
sea-captains,  two  of  his  brothers  had  been 
sailors,  and  deep  down  in  his  heart  the  spirit 


"ATLANTIC   LINERS"  25 

of  romance  answered,  with  voice  fresh  and 
young  as  ever,  to  any  breath  or  association  of 
the  sea.  But  he  seldom,  if  ever,  spoke  of  it, 
and  only  in  an  anecdote  or  two  was  it  occa- 
sionally brought  to  mind.  Sometimes  his  wife 
would  tease  him  with  the  vanity  which,  on 
holidays  by  the  sea,  would  send  him  forth  on 
blustering  tempestuous  nights  clad  in  a  great- 
coat of  blue  pilot-cloth  and  a  sealskin  cap,  and 
tell  how  proud  he  was  on  one  occasion,  as  he 
stood  on  the  wharf,  at  being  addressed  as 
"  captain,"  and  asked  what  ship  he  had  brought 
into  port.  Even  the  hard  heart  of  youth  must 
soften  at  such  a  reminiscence. 

Then  scattered  about  the  house  was  many  a 
prosaic  bit  of  furniture  which  was  musical  with 
memories  for  the  parents,  —  memories  of  their 
first  little  homes  and  their  early  struggles 
together.  This  side-board,  now  relegated  to 
the  children's  play-room,  had  once  been  their 
pihe  de  resistance  in  such  and  such  a  street, 
twelve  years  ago,  before  their  children  had 
risen  up  and  —  not  called  them  blessed. 

A  few  years,  and  the  light  of  poetry  will  be 
upon  these  things  for  their  children  too ;   but, 
meanwhile,  can  we  blame  them  that  they  can-  • 
not  accept  the  poetry  of  their  elders  in  ex- 


26  YOUNG   LIVES 

change  for  that  of  their  own  which  they  are 
impatient  to  make?  And  when  that  poetry  is 
made  and  resident  in  similar  concrete  objects 
of  home  —  how  will  it  seem,  one  wonders,  to 
their  children?  This  old  desk  which  Esther 
has  been  allowed  to  appropriate,  and  in  a 
secret  drawer  of  which  are  already  accumu- 
lating certain  love-letters  and  lavender,  will  it 
ever,  one  wonders,  turn  to  lumber  in  younger 
hands  ?  For  a  little  while  she  leans  her  sweet 
young  bosom  against  it,  and  writes  scented 
letters  in  a  girlish  hand  to  a  little  red-headed 
boy  who  has  these  past  weeks  begun  to  love 
her.  Can  it  be  possible  that  the  desk  on 
which  Esther  once  wrote  to  her  little  Mike 
will  ever  hear  itself  spoken  of  as  "  this  ugly 
old  thing"?  Let  us  hope  not. 


CHAPTER   III 

OF  THE  LOVE  OF  HENRY  AND   ESTHER 

FATHER  and  son  had  both  meant  what  they 
said ;  and  even  the  mother,  for  whom  it  would 
be  the  cruellest  wrench  of  all,  knew  that  Henry 
was  going  to  leave  home.  Not  literally  on 
the  morrow,  for  the  following  evening  he  had 
appeared  before  his  father  to  apologise  for  the 
manner  —  carefully  for  the  manner,  not  the 
matter,  —  in  which  he  had  spoken  to  him  the 
evening  before,  and  asked  for  a  day  or  two  in 
which  to  make  his  arrangements  for  departure. 
James  Mesurier  was  too  strong  a  'man  to  be 
resentful,  and  he  accepted  his  son's  apology 
with  a  gentleness  that,  as  each  knew,  detracted 
nothing  from  the  resolution  which  each  had 
come  to. 

"  My  boy,"  he  said,  "  you  will  never  have 
such  good  friends  as  your  father  and  mother ; 
but  it  is  best  that  you  go  out  into  the  world  to 
learn  it." 


28  YOUNG   LIVES 

There  is  something  terribly  winning  and 
unnerving  to  the  blackest  resolution,  when  the 
severity  of  the  strong  dissolves  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment into  tenderness.  The  rare  kind  words  of 
the  stern,  explain  it  as  we  will,  and  unjust  as 
the  preference  must  surely  be,  one  values  be- 
yond the  frequent  forgivenesses  of  the  gentle. 
Mary  Mesurier  would  have  laid  down  her  life 
in  defence  of  her  son's  greatest  fault,  and 
James  Mesurier  would  as  readily  have  court- 
martialled  him  for  his  smallest,  and  yet,  some- 
how, a  kind  word  from  him  brought  the  tears 
to  his  son's  eyes. 

He  had  no  longer  the  heart  to  stimulate  the 
rebellion  of  Esther,  as  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  do; 
and,  to  her  disappointment,  he  announced  that, 
on  the  whole,  it  would  perhaps  be  best  for  him 
to  go  alone. 

"  It  would  almost  kill  poor  mother,"  he 
said ;  "  and  father  means  well  after  all,"  he 
added. 

"  I  'm  afraid  it  would  break  father's  heart," 
said  Esther. 

So  these  two  young  people  agreed  to  spare 
their  parents,  though  —  let  it  not  be  otherwise 
imagined  —  at  a  great  sacrifice.  The  little 
paper  on  which  they  had  carefully  worked 


HENRY   AND    ESTHER  29 

out  their  housekeeping,  skilfully  allotting  so 
much  for  rent,  butcher's  meat,  milk,  coals,  and 
washing,  and  making  "  everything  "  come  most 
optimistically  to  £$<)  17 s.  yd.  a  year,  would  be 
of  no  use  now,  at  all  events  for  the  present. 
Their  little  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  dream 
must  be  laid  aside — for,  of  course,  they  had 
thought  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb ;  and  in- 
deed, out  beyond  this  history  of  a  few  youth- 
ful years,  their  friendship  was  to  prove  itself 
far  from  unworthy  of  its  famous  model. 

Yet  at  this  time  it  was  of  no  great  antiquity; 
for,  but  a  very  few  years  back,  Henry  had 
been  a  miniature  tyrant  too,  and  ruled  it  over 
his  kingdom  of  six  sisters  with  all  the  hideous 
egoism  of  a  pampered  "  son  and  heir."  Al- 
though in  the  very  middle  class  of  society 
into  which  Henry  Mesurier  was  born,  the  dig- 
nity of  eldest  son  is  one  but  very  contingently 
connected  with  tangible  inheritance,  it  is  none 
the  less  vigorously  kept  up ;  and,  no  doubt, 
without  any  consciousness  of  partiality,  Henry 
Mesurier,  from  his  childhood,  had  been  brought 
up  to  regard  himself  as  a  sort  of  young  prince, 
for  whom  all  the  privileges  of  home  were,  by 
divine  right,  reserved.  For  example,  he  took 
his  meals  with  his  parents  fully  five  years 


30  YOUNG   LIVES 

before  any  of  his  sisters  were  allowed  to  do  so  ; 
and  for  retention  of  this  privilege,  when  at 
length  the  democratic  measure  of  its  exten- 
sion to  his  two  elder  sisters  was  proposed,  he 
fought  with  the  bitterest  spirit  of  caste.  In- 
deed, few  oligarchs  have  been  more  wildly 
hated  than  Henry  Mesurier  up  to  the  age, 
say,  of  fourteen.  That  was  the  age  of  his  last 
thrashing,  and  it  was  in  the  gloomy  dusk  of 
that  momentous  occasion,  as  he  lay  alone 
with  smarting  back  in  the  twilight  of  an  un- 
usually early  bed-time,  that  a  possible  new 
view  of  woman  —  as  a  creature  of  like  passions 
and  privileges  —  presented  itself  to  him. 

His  thrashing  had  been  so  unjustly  severe, 
that  even  the  granite  little  hearts  of  his  sisters 
had  been  softened ;  and  Esther,  managing  to 
secrete  a  cake  that  he  loved  from  the  tea  that 
was  lost  to  him,  stole  with  it  to  the  top  of  the 
house,  where  he  writhed  amid  lonely  echoes 
and  shadows. 

She  had  brought  it  to  him  awkwardly,  by 
no  means  sure  of  its  reception,  but  sure  in  her 
heart  that  she  would  hate  him  for  ever,  if  he 
missed  the  meaning  of  the  little  solatium. 
But  fortunately  his  back  was  far  too  sore,  and 
his  spirit  too  broken  to  remember  his  pride, 


HENRY   AND    ESTHER  31 

and  he  accepted  the  offering  with  gratitude 
and  tears. 

"  Kiss  me,  Esther,"  he  had  said  ;  and  a  won- 
derful thrill  had  gone  through  the  little  girl  at 
this  strange  softness  in  the  mighty,  while  the 
dawn  of  a  wonderful  pity  for  the  lot  of  woman 
had,  unconsciously,  broken  in  the  soul  of  the 
boy. 

"  Kiss  me  again,  Esther,"  he  had  said,  and, 
with  the  tears  that  mingled  in  that  kiss,  an 
eternal  friendship  was  baptized. 

Henry  rose  on  the  morrow  a  changed  being. 
The  grosser  pretensions  of  the  male  had  fallen 
from  him  for  ever,  and  there  was  at  first  some- 
thing almost  awe-inspiring  to  his  sisters  in  the 
gentle  solicitude  for  them  and  their  rights  and 
pleasures  which  replaced  the  old  despotism. 
From  that  time,  Esther  and  he  became  closer  and 
closer  companions,  and  as  they  more  and  more 
formed  an  oligarchy  of  two,  a  rearrangement 
of  parties  in  the  little  parliament  of  home 
came  about,  to  be  upset  again  as  Dot  and 
Mat  qualified  for  admission  into  that  exclusive 
little  circle. 

So  soon  as  Henry  had  a  new  dream  or  a 
new  thought,  he  shared  it  with  Esther;  and 
freely  as  he  had  received  from  Carlyle,  or 


32  YOUNG  LIVES 

Emerson,  or  Thoreau,  freely  he  passed  it  on 
to  her.  For  the  gloomiest  occasion  he  had 
some  strengthening  text,  and  one  of  the  last 
things  he  did  before  he  left  home  was  to  make 
for  her  a  little  book  which  he  called  "  Faith 
for  Cloudy  Days,"  consisting  of  energising  and 
sustaining  phrases  from  certain  great  writers, 
—  as  it  were,  a  bottle  of  philosophical  phos- 
phates against  seasons  of  spiritual  cowardice 
or  debility.  There  one  opened  and  read : 
"  Sudden  the  worst  turns  best  to  the  brave" 
or  Thoreau's  "  /  have  yet  to  hear  a  single  -word 
of  wisdom  spoken  to  me  by  my  elders"  or  again 
Matthew  Arnold's 

"  Tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed 
May  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled!'1 

James  Mesurier  knew  nothing  of  all  this; 
but  if  he  had,  he  might  have  understood  that 
after  all  his  children  were  not  so  far  from  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 


CHAPTER  IV 

OF  THE  PROFESSIONS  THAT  CHOOSE,  AND 
MIKE   LAFLIN 

HOWEVER  we  may  hint  at  its  explanation  by 
theories  of  inheritance,  it  still  remains  curious 
with  what  unerring  instinct  a  child  of  character 
will  from  the  first,  and  when  it  is  so  evidently 
ignorant  of  the  field  of  choice,  select,  out  of  all 
life's  occupations  and  distinctions,  one  special 
work  it  hungers  to  do,  one  special  distinction 
that  to  it  seems  the  most  desirable  of  earthly 
honours.  That  Mary  Mesurier  loved  poetry, 
and  James  Mesurier  sermons,  in  face  of  the  fact 
that  so  many  mothers  and  fathers  have  done 
the  same  with  no  such  result,  hardly  seems 
adequate  to  account  for  the  peculiar  glamour 
which,  almost  before  he  could  read,  there  was 
for  Henry  Mesurier  in  any  form  of  print. 
While  books  were  still  being  read  to  him,  there 
had  already  come  into  his  mind,  unaccount- 
ably, as  by  outside  suggestion,  that  there  could 
3 


34  YOUNG   LIVES 

be  nothing  so  splendid  in  the  world  as  to  write 
a  book  for  one's  self.  To  be  either  a  soldier,  a 
sailor,  an  architect,  or  an  engineer,  would, 
doubtless,  have  its  fascinations  as  well ;  but  to 
make  a  real  printed  book,  with  your  name  in 
gilt  letters  outside,  was  real  romance. 

At  that  early  day,  and  for  a  long  while  after, 
the  boy  had  no  preference  for  any  particular 
kind  of  book.  It  was  an  entirely  abstract  pas- 
sion for  print  and  paper.  To  have  been  the 
author  of  "  The  Iliad  "  or  of  Beeton's  "  Book  of 
Household  Recipes "  would  have  given  him 
almost  the  same  exaltation  of  authorship  ;  and 
the  thrill  of  worship  which  came  over  him  when, 
one  early  day,  a  man  who  had  actually  had  an 
article  on  the  sugar  bounties  accepted  by  a 
commercial  magazine  was  pointed  out  to  him 
in  the  street,  was  one  he  never  forgot ;  nor  in 
after  years  did  he  ever  encounter  that  trans- 
figured contributor  without  an  involuntary 
recurrence  of  that  old  feeling  of  awe.  No 
subsequent  acquaintance  with  editorial  rooms 
ever  led  him  into  materialistic  explanations  of 
that  enchanted  piece  of  work  —  a  newspaper. 
The  editors  might  do  their  best  —  and  succeed 
surprisingly  —  in  looking  like  ordinary  mortals, 
you  might  even  know  the  leader-writers,  and, 


MIKE   LAFLIN  35 

with  the  very  public,  gaze  through  gratings 
into  the  subterranean  printing-rooms,  —  the 
mystery  none  the  less  remained.  No  exposure 
of  editorial  staffs  or  other  machinery  could  de- 
stroy the  sense  of  enchantment,  as  no  amount 
of  anatomy  or  biology  can  destroy  the  mys- 
tery of  the  human  miracle. 

So  I  suppose  Nature  first  makes  us  in  love 
with  the  tools  we  are  to  use,  long  before  we  have 
a  thought  upon  what  we  shall  use  them.  Per- 
haps the  first  desire  of  the  born  writer  is  to  be 
a  compositor.  Out  of  the  love  of  mere  type 
quickly  evolves  a  love  of  mere  words  for  their 
own  sake ;  but  whether  we  shall  make  use  of 
them  as  a  historian,  novelist,  philosopher,  or 
poet,  is  a  secondary  consideration,  a  mere 
afterthought.  To  Henry  Mesurier  had  already 
come  the  time  when  the  face  of  life  began  to 
wear  a  certain  aspect,  the  peculiar  attraction  of 
which  for  himself  he  longed  to  fix,  a  certain 
mystical  importance  attaching  to  the  common- 
est every-day  objects  and  circumstances,  a 
certain  ecstatic  quality  in  the  simplest  experi- 
ences ;  but  even  so  far  as  it  had  been  revealed, 
this  dawning  vision  of  the  world  seemed  only 
to  have  come  to  him,  not  so  much  to  find 
expression,  as  to  mock  him  with  his  childish 


36  YOUNG   LIVES 

incapacity  adequately  to  use  the  very  tools  he 
loved.     He  would  hang  for  hours  over  some 
scene  in  nature,  caught  in  a  woodland  spell, 
like  a  nympholept  of  old ;   but  when  he  tried 
to  put  in  words  what  he  had  seen,  what  a  poor 
piece  of  ornamental  gardening  the  thing  was ! 
There  were  trees  and  birds   and   grass,  to  be 
sure ;  but  there  was  nothing  of  that  meaning 
look  which  they  had  worn,  that  look  of  being 
tiptoe  with  revelation  which  is  one  of  the  most 
fascinating   tricks    of  the    visible    world,    and 
which  even  a  harsh  town  full  of  chimneys  can 
sometimes  take  on  when  seen  in  given  moments 
and  lights.     And  it  was  astonishing  to  see  into 
what  lifeless  imitative  verse  his  most  original 
and  passionate  moments  could  be  transformed. 
Still  some  unreasonably  indulgent  spirit  of 
the  air,  that  had  evidently  not  read  his  manu- 
scripts, whispered  him  to  be  of  good  cheer: 
the  lifeless  words  would  not  always  be  lifeless, 
some  day  the  birds  would  sing  in  his  verses 
too.     This  sense  of  failure  did  not,  it  must  be 
said,  immediately  follow  composition  ;  for,  for  a 
little  while  the  original  expression  of  the  thing 
seen  reinforced  with  reflected   significance  its 
pale  copy.     It   was    only   some   weeks    after, 
when  the  written  copy  was  left  to  do  all  the 


MIKE   LAFLIN  37 

work  itself,  that  its  foolish  inadequacy  was 
exposed. 

"  However,  there  is  one  consolation,  they 
are  not  worse  than  Keats  and  Shelley  wrote  at 
the  same  age,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  looked 
through  a  bundle  of  the  poor  things  the  even- 
ing before  his  room  was  to  be  dismantled. 
"  Indeed,  they  could  n't  be,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile.  Fortunately  he  was  but  nineteen  as 
yet;  would  he  venture  on  a  like  comparison 
were  he  twenty-five? 

Yes,  his  little  room  was  to  be  dismantled  on 
the  morrow,  —  this  first  little  private  chapel 
of  his  spirit.  This  fair  order  of  shelves,  this 
external  harmony  answering  to  an  inner  har- 
mony of  his  spirit,  were  to  be  broken  up  for 
ever.  Often  as  he  had  sat  in  the  folioed 
lamplit  nook  which  was,  as  it  were,  the  very 
chancel  of  the  little  church,  and  gazed  in  an 
ecstasy  at  the  books,  each  with  a  great  shin- 
ing name  of  fame  upon  its  cover,  it  had 
seemed  as  though  he  had  put  his  very  soul 
outside  him,  externalised  it  in  this  little  corner 
of  books  and  pictures.  His  soul  shivered,  as 
one  who  must  go  houseless  awhile,  at  the 
thought  that  to-morrow  its  home  would  be  no 
more.  When  and  how  would  be  its  reincarna- 


38  YOUNG  LIVES 

tion?  More  magnificent,  maybe,  but  never 
this  again.  It  was  sacrilege, — was  it  not  in- 
gratitude too?  When  once  more  the  books 
and  the  pictures  began  to  form  into  a  new  har- 
mony, there  would  be  no  mother's  love  to  help 
the  work  go  on.  .  .  . 

But  as  he  mused  in  this  no  doubt  sentimen- 
tal fashion,  the  door  opened  and  the  little  red- 
headed Mike  entered.  His  was  a  little  Flib- 
bertigibbet of  a  face,  already  lined  with  the 
practice  of  mimicry ;  and  there  was  in  it  a  very 
attractive  blending  of  tenderness  and  humour. 
Mike  was  also  one  of  those  whom  life  at  the 
beginning  had  impressed  with  the  delight  of 
one  kind  of  work  and  no  other.  When  a  mere 
imp  of  a  boy,  the  heartless  tormentor  of  a 
large  and  sententious  stepmother,  the  despair 
of  schoolmasters,  the  most  ingenious  of  tru- 
ants, a  humorous  ragamuffin  invulnerable  to 
punishment,  it  was  already  revealed  to  him 
that  his  mission  in  life  was  to  be  the  obser- 
vation and  reproduction  of  human  character, 
particularly  in  its  humorous  aspects.  To 
this  end  Nature  had  gifted  him  with  a  face 
that  was  capable  of  every  form  of  transforma- 
tion, and  at  an  early  age  he  hastened  to  put  it 
in  training.  All  day  long  he  was  pulling  faces. 


MIKE   LAFLIN  39 

As  an  artist  will  sketch  everything  he  comes 
across,  so  Mike  would  endeavour  to  imitate 
any  characteristic  expression  or  attitude,  ani- 
mate or  inanimate,  in  the  world  around  him. 
Dogs,  little  boys,  and  grotesque  old  men  were 
his  special  delight,  and  of  all  his  elders  he 
had,  it  goes  without  saying,  a  private  gallery 
of  irreverently  faithful  portraits. 

In  addition  to  his  plastic  face,  Nature  had 
given  him  a  larynx  which  was  capable  of 
imitating  every  human  and  inhuman  sound. 
To  squeak  like  a  pig,  bark  like  a  dog,  low 
like  a  cow,  and  crow  like  a  cock,  were  the 
veriest  juvenilia  of  his  attainments ;  and  he 
could  imitate  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  so  cun- 
ningly that  flies  themselves  have  often  been 
deceived.  It  was  this  delight  in  imitation 
for  its  own  sake,  and  not  so  much  that  he 
had  been  caught  by  the  usual  allurements  of 
the  theatre,  that  he  looked  upon  the  career 
of  an  actor  as  his  natural  and  ultimate  call- 
ing. It  was  already  privately  whispered  in 
the  little  circle  that  Mike  would  some  day  go 
on  the  stage.  But  don't  tell  that  as  yet  to  old 
Mr.  Laflin,  whatever  you  do. 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  in  Mike  than 
pulling  faces,  as  Esther  recently,  and  Henry 


40  YOUNG   LIVES 

before  her,  had  discovered.  His  acting  was 
some  day  to  stir  the  hearts  of  audiences, 
because  he  had  instincts  for  knowing  human 
nature  inside  as  well  as  out,  knew  the  secret 
springs  of  tears,  as  well  as  the  open  secrets  of 
laughter;  and  it  was  rather  on  this  common 
ground  of  a  rich  "  many-veined  humanity " 
that  these  two  had  met  and  become  friends, 
rather  than  on  any  real  community  of  tastes 
and  ideas.  Yet  Mike  loved  books  too,  and 
had  an  excellent  taste  in  them,  though  per- 
haps he  had  hardly  loved  them,  had  not 
Henry  and  Esther  loved  them  first,  and  it 
is  quite  certain,  and  quite  proper,  that  he 
never  found  a  page  of  any  book  so  fascinating 
as  the  face  of  some  lined  and  battered  human 
being.  Over  that  writing  he  was  never  found 
asleep. 

There  was  one  other  literary  matter  on  which 
he  held  a  very  personal  and  unshakable  opinion, 
—  Henry  Mesurier's  future  as  a  poet;  and  on 
this  he  came  just  in  the  nick  of  time  to  cheer 
him  this  evening. 

"  The  next  move  will  be  to  London,  old  fel- 
low," he  said ;  "  and  then  you  '11  soon  see  my 
prophecies  come  true.  My  opinion  may  n't 
be  worth  much,  but  you  know  what  it  is. 


MIKE   LAFLIN  41 

You  '11  be  a  great  writer  some  day,  never 
fear." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  old  boy.  And  you  know 
what  I  think  about  your  acting,  don't  you?" 

Then  it  was  that  Esther  appeared,  and 
Henry  made  some  transparent  excuse  to  leave 
them  awhile  together. 

"  You  dear  old  thing,"  said  Esther,  kissing 
him,  "  now  don't  stay  away  too  long." 


CHAPTER  V 

OF    THE    LOVE    OF    ESTHER    AND    MIKE,    AND 

THE   MESURIER   LAW   IN   REGARD   TO 

"  SWEETHEARTS  " 

I  'M  afraid  Esther  was  little  more  than  fourteen 
when  she  had  first  seen  and  fallen  in  love  with 
Mike.  She  had  heard  much  of  him  from  her 
brother ;  but,  for  one  reason  or  another,  he  had 
never  been  to  the  house.  One  evening,  how- 
ever, at  a  concert,  Henry  had  told  her  to  look 
in  a  certain  direction  and  she  would  see  Mike. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  '11  call  him  good  look- 
ing," he  said. 

So  Esther  had  looked  round,  and  seen  the 
pretty  curly  red  hair  and  the  eager  little  wist- 
ful humorous  face  for  the  first  time. 

"  Why,  he 's  got  a  lovely  little  face !  "  she 
said,  blushing  deeply  for  no  reason  at  all,  — 
except  perhaps  that  there  had  seemed  some- 
thing pleading  and  shelter-seeking  in  that 
little  face,  something  that  cried  out  to  be 
"  mothered,"  and  that  instantly  there  had 


LOVE   OF   ESTHER  AND   MIKE    43 

welled  up  in  her  heart  a  great  warm  wish  that 
some  day  she  might  be  that  for  it  and  more. 

And  at  the  same  instant  it  had  occurred  to 
the  boy,  that  the  face  thus  turned  to  him  for  a 
moment  was  the  loveliest  face  he  had  ever  seen, 
the  only  lovely  face  he  would  ever  care  to  see. 
But  with  that  thought,  too,  had  come  a  curious 
pang  of  hopelessness  into  his  heart.  For 
Esther  Mesurier  was  one  of  those  girls  who 
are  the  prizes  of  men.  With  all  those  pretty 
tall  fellows  about  her,  it  was  unlikely  indeed 
that  she  would  care  for  a  little  red-headed, 
face-pulling  ragamuffin  like  him !  And  yet 
if  she  never  could  care  for  him,  —  never,  never 
at  all,  what  a  lonely  place  the  world  would  be ! 

When,  after  the  concert,  Henry  looked  round 
to  introduce  Mike  to  his  sister,  he  had  some- 
how slipped  away  and  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

However,  it  was  not  long  after  this  that 
Mike  paid  a  visit  to  Henry's  study  one  evening, 
and,  coming  ostensibly  to  look  at  his  books, 
once  more  saw  his  sister,  and  spoke  to  her  a 
brief  introductory  word.  His  interest  in  litera- 
ture became  positively  remarkable  from  this 
time ;  and  the  enthusiasm  with  which  his  actor's 
mind  reflected,  and,  no  doubt  in  all  good  faith, 


44  YOUNG   LIVES 

mimicked  the  various  philosophical  and  liter- 
ary enthusiasms  of  his  friend,  was,  though 
neither  realised  it,  a  sure  earnest  of  his  future. 
More  and  more  frequent  visits  to  that  study 
became  necessary  for  its  gratification;  and, 
in  the  course  of  one  of  them,  Mike  confessed 
to  Henry  that  he  loved  his  sister,  previously 
piling  upon  himself  many  anticipatory  terms 
of  ignominy  for  daring  to  do  so  presumptuous 
a  thing.  Henry,  however,  was  so  taken  with 
the  idea  that,  in  his  singleness  of  mind,  he 
suffered  no  pang  of  retrospective  suspicion  of 
his  friend's  love  for  himself.  Pending  Esther's 
decision,  —  and  of  her  mind  in  the  matter,  he 
had  something  more  than  a  glimmering,  —  he 
welcomed  Mike  with  gladness  as  a  prospective 
brother-in-law,  and,  as  soon  as  he  found  an 
opportunity,  left  them  alone  together,  return- 
ing quite  a  long  time  afterwards  —  to  find 
them  extraordinarily  happy,  it  would  appear, 
at  his  safe  return. 

Esther  and  Mike  had  thus  been  fortunate 
enough  to  get  that  important  question  of  a 
mate  settled  quite  early  in  life,  and  to  be 
saved  from  those  arduous  and  desolating  ex- 
periments in  being  fitted  with  a  heart  which  so 
many  less  happy  people  have  to  go  through. 


LOVE   OF   ESTHER  AND    MIKE     45 

But  this  happy  fact  was  as  yet  a  secret  beyond 
this  strict  circle  of  three ;  for,  strange  as  it  may 
sound,  the  beautiful  attraction  of  a  girl  for  a 
boy,  the  beautiful  worship  of  a  boy  for  a  girl, 
were  matters  not  even  mentionable  as  yet  in 
the  Mesurier  household.  For  a  child,  par- 
ticularly a  girl,  under  twenty  to  speak  of  hav- 
ing a  "  sweetheart"  was  an  offence  which  had 
a  strong  savour  of  disgust  in  it,  even  for  Mrs. 
Mesurier,  broad-minded  as  in  most  matters 
she  was. 

So  far  as  the  only  decent  theory  of  the 
relations  of  the  sexes  was  involuntarily  ex- 
plicit, by  virtue  of  certain  explosions  on  the 
subject,  it  was  something  like  this :  That,  at  a 
certain  age,  say  twenty-one,  or,  for  leniency, 
twenty,  as  it  were  on  the  striking  of  a  clock, 
the  young  girl,  who  previously  had  been  pro- 
foundly and  inexpressibly  unconscious  that 
the  male  being  existed,  would  suddenly  sit 
up  wide  awake  in  an  attitude  of  attention  to 
offers  of  marriage ;  and  that,  similarly,  the 
young  man,  who  had  meanwhile  lived  with 
his  eyes  shut  and  his  senses  asleep,  would 
jump  up  also  at  the  striking  of  a  clock,  and, 
as  it  were,  with  hilarity,  say,  "It  is  high  time 
I  chose  a  wife,"  and  thereupon  begin  to  look 


46  YOUNG  LIVES 

about,  among  the  streets  and  tennis-parties 
known  to  him,  for  that  impossible  paragon,  — 
a  wife  to  satisfy  both  his  parents. 

One  or  two  of  Henry's  earliest  troubles  and 
most  drastic  punishments  had  come  of  a  pro- 
pensity to  "sweethearts,"  developed  at  an  in- 
decorously early  age,  and  in  fact  at  the  time 
of  which  I  write  he  could  barely  recall  the 
name  of  Miss  This  or  Miss  The  Other  by  the 
association  of  ancient  physical  pangs  suffered 
for  their  sake.  The  greatest  danger  to  such 
contraband  passions  was  undoubtedly  the  post ; 
for,  in  the  Mesurier  household,  a  more  than 
Russian  censorship  was  exercised  over  the 
incoming  and  — as  far  as  it  could  be  controlled 
—  the  outgoing  mail.  One  old  morning,  at 
family  breakfast,  which  the  subsequent  events 
of  the  evening  were  to  fix  on  his  mind,  Henry 
Mesurier  had  grown  white  with  fear,  as  the 
stupid  maid  had  handed  him  a  fat  letter  ad- 
dressed in  a  sprawling  school-girl's  hand. 

"Who  is  your  letter  from,  Henry?"  asked 
the  father. 

Henry  blushed  and  boggled. 

"  Pass  it  over  to  me." 

Resistance  was  worse  than  useless.  As  in 
war-time  a  woman  will  see  her  husband  set  up 


LOVE   OF  ESTHER  AND    MIKE     47 

against  a  wait  and  shot  before  her  face,  as  a 
conspirator  sees  the  hands  of  the  police  close 
upon  papers  of  the  most  terrible  secrecy,  so 
did  Henry  watch  that  scented  little  package 
pass  with  a  sense  of  irrevocable  loss  into  the 
cold  hands  of  his  father.  The  father  opened 
it,  placed  a  little  white  enclosure  by  the  side  of 
his  coffee-cup  for  further  inspection,  and  then 
read  the  letter  —  full  of  "darlings"  and  "for 
evers  "  —  with  the  severe  attention  he  would 
have  given  a  business  letter.  Then  he  handed 
it  across  to  the  mother  without  a  word,  but 
with  the  look  one  doctor  gives  another  in  dis- 
covering a  new  and  terrible  symptom  in  a 
patient  on  whom  they  are  consulting.  While 
the  mother  read,  the  father  opened  the  little 
packet,  and  out  rolled  a  tiny  plait  of  silky 
brown  hair  tied  into  a  loop  with  a  blue 
ribbon. 

"  Disgusting !  "  exclaimed  the  father  and 
mother,  simultaneously,  to  each  other,  as 
though  the  boy  was  not  there. 

"  I  am  shocked  at  you,  Henry,"  said  the 
mother. 

"  I  shall  certainly  write  to  the  forward  little 
girl's  parents,"  said  the  father. 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that,  father,"  exclaimed  the 


48  YOUNG   LIVES 

boy,  in  terror,  and  half  wondering  if  so  sweet  a 
thing  could  really  be  so  criminal. 

"  Don't  dare  to  speak  to  me,"  said  the 
father.  "  Leave  the  breakfast-table.  I  will 
see  you  again  this  evening." 

Henry  knew  too  well  what  the  verb  "  to 
see "  signified  under  the  circumstances,  and 
the  day  passed  in  such  apprehensive  gloom 
that  it  was  a  positive  relief,  when  evening  had 
at  last  come,  to  feel  a  walking-cane  about  him, 
at  once  more  snaky  and  more  notched  than 
any  previously  applied  to  his  stubborn  young 
frame.  Not  to  cry  was,  of  course,  a  point  of 
honour ;  and  as  the  infuriating  absence  of  tears 
inflamed  the  righteous  anger  of  the  parent, 
the  stick  splintered  and  broke  with  a  crash,  in 
which  accident  Henry  learned  he  was  respon- 
sible for  a  double  offence. 

"  I  would  n't  have  broken  that  stick  for  five 
pounds,"  said  the  father,  his  interest  suddenly 
withdrawn  from  his  son ;  "  it  was  given  to  me 
by  my  old  friend  Tarporley,"  which,  as  can 
be  imagined,  was  a  mighty  satisfaction  to  the 
sad  small  soul,  smarting,  not  merely  from  the 
stick,  but  from  the  sense  that  life  held  some- 
thing stupid  in  its  injustice,  in  that  he  was 
thus  being  mauled  for  the  most  beautiful  ex- 


LOVE   OF   ESTHER  AND   MIKE    49 

alted  feeling  that  had  ever  visited  his  young 
heart. 

Those  dark  ages  of  oppression  were  long 
since  passed  for  Henry  and  Esther,  when 
Mike  began  to  steal  in  of  an  evening  to  see 
Esther,  and  they  were  only  referred  to  now 
and  again,  anecdotally,  as  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury looks  back  at  the  days  of  the  Holy  In- 
quisition ;  but  still  it  was  wise  to  be  cautious, 
for  an  interdict  against  Mike's  coming  to  the 
house  was  quite  within  possibility,  even  in  this 
comparatively  enlightened  epoch ;  and  that 
would  have  been  even  more  effective  than 
James  Mesurier's  old  friend  Tarporley's  stick 
of  sacred  memory. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END  OF  HOME 

RECALLING  for  another  moment  or  two  the 
ancient  affair  of  the  heart  described  in  the 
last  chapter,  it  may  pertinently  be  added 
that  James  Mesurier  fulfilled  his  threat  on 
that  occasion,  and  had  in  fact  written  to  the 
"  forward  little  girl's "  parents.  Could  he 
have  seen  the  rather  amused  reception  of  his 
letter,  he  would  have  realised  with  sorrow 
that  an  age  of  parental  leniency,  little  short 
of  degeneration,  was  in  certain  quarters  un- 
mistakably supplanting  the  stern  age  of  which 
he  was  in  a  degree  an  anachronistic  survival. 
That  forward  little  girl's  parents  chanced  to 
know  James  Mesurier  enough  by  sight  and 
reputation  to  respect  him,  while  they  smiled 
across  to  each  other  at  his  rather  quaint  disci- 
plinarianism.  Could  Henry  Mesurier  have  seen 
that  smile,  he  would  not  only  have  felt  reas- 
sured as  to  the  fate  of  his  little  sweetheart, 


THE   END   OF   HOME  51 

but  have  understood  that  there  were  tem- 
perate zones  of  childhood,  as  well  as  arctic, 
when  young  life  waxed  gaily  to  the  sound  of 
laughter  and  other  musical  accompaniments. 

This  revelation,  however,  was  deferred  some 
few  years,  till  he  became  acquainted  with  the 
merry  family  of  which  Mike  Laflin  was  the 
characteristic  expression.  Old  Mr.  Laflin  was 
a  little,  jolly,  bald-headed  gentleman,  bubbling 
over  with  mirth,  who  liked  to  have  young  peo- 
ple about  him,  and  in  his  quips  and  cranks  was 
as  young  as,  and  much  cleverer  than,  any  of 
them.  It  almost  startled  Henry  on  his  first 
introduction  to  this  family  of  two  daughters 
and  two  brothers,  where  the  father  was  rather 
like  a  brother  grown  prematurely  bald,  and 
the  stepmother  supplied  with  monumental 
dignity  that  element  of  solemnity  without 
which  no  properly  regulated  household  is 
complete,  to  notice  the  camaraderie  which 
prevailed  amongst  them  all.  Jokes  were  fly- 
ing about  from  one  to  another  all  the  time, 
and  the  father  made  a  point  of  capping  them 
all.  This  was  home  in  a  liberal  sense  which 
the  word  had  never  meant  to  Henry.  Doubt- 
less, it  had  its  own  individual  restrictions  and 
censorships ;  but  its  surface  was  at  all  events 


52  YOUNG   LIVES 

debonair,  and  it  was  serviceable  to  Henry  as 
revealing  the  existence  of  more  genial  social 
climates  than  that  in  which  he  had  been  nur- 
tured—  though  in  making  the  comparison  with 
his  own  atmosphere,  he  realised  that  this 
bonhomie  was  nothing  more  important  than  a 
grace. 

Perhaps,  nay,  very  surely,  the  seriousness, 
even  the  severity  of,  his  own  training,  had 
been  among  the  very  conditions  needed  to 
make  him  what  he  some  day  hoped  to  be, 
though  they  had  seemed  so  purposely  inimi- 
cal. Had  James  Mesurier's  religion  been  more 
free  and  easy,  a  matter  less  personally  assured 
and  momentous,  his  son's  almost  oppressive 
sense  of  the  spiritual  significance  of  existence 
had  been  less  radiant  and  constantly  sup- 
porting. Life  might  have  gained  in  super- 
ficial liveableness ;  but  it  would  have  lost  in 
intensity,  in  real  importance,  and  with  that 
loss  would  have  gone  too  Henry's  chance  of 
being  a  poet.  "  The  poet  in  a  golden  clime 
was  born  !  "  —  once  and  again,  maybe,  but 
more  often  he  comes  from  a  land  of  iron  and 
tears. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Henry 
should  begin  to  appreciate  the  services  of 


THE   END   OF   HOME  53 

his  home  to  his  development  at  the  moment 
when  he  was  leaving  it.  And  the  mere  pang 
of  the  parting  from  it,  when  one  day  the 
hour  for  parting  had  surely  come,  was  much 
more  deep  and  complicated  than  he  could 
have  dreamed.  As  in  our  bodies  we  become 
conscious  of  certain  vital  centres,  certain  de- 
pendencies of  relation  and  harmony,  only 
when  they  have  suffered  shock,  so  often  in 
life  we  may  go  along  unconscious  of  the  vital 
dependencies  of  our  human  relationships,  till 
the  moment  comes  to  strain  or  sever  them. 
Then  a  thousand  hidden  nerves  quiver  at  the 
discovering  touch  of  the  knife.  Henry's  leav- 
ing home,  though  it  had  been  originally  the 
suggestion  of  violent  feeling,  was  not  to  be 
an  actual  severance.  His  father's  "  leave  my 
house  for  ever"  had  owed  something  to  the 
rhetoric  of  anger,  and  the  expulsion  and  cut- 
ting off  which  it  had  implied  had  since  been 
so  softened  as  practically  to  have  disappeared. 
Henry  was  certainly  not  leaving  his  father's 
house  for  ever,  but  merely  going  into  lodgings 
with  a  friend,  with  full  privileges  to  visit  his 
own  home  as  often  as  he  chose. 

Still,  he  was,  all  the  same,  leaving  home,  and 
he  was  the  first  to  leave  it.     The  mother,  at  all 


54  YOUNG  LIVES 

events,  knew  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end,  knew  that,  with  her  first-born's  departure 
(desertion,  she  may  have  called  it),  a  new  era 
had  commenced  for  the  home,  —  the  era  of  dis- 
integration. For  twenty  years  and  more  it  had 
been  all  building  and  building;  now  it  would 
be  all  just  pulling  down  again  ;  and  there  was 
a  dreary  sound  as  of  demolition  and  wind-driven 
rain  in  her  ears. 

Oh,  tragic  love  of  mothers !  Of  no  love  is 
the  final  loss  and  doom  so  inevitably  destined. 
The  husband  may  desert  the  wife,  but  the  son 
is  sure  to  desert  his  mother  —  must,  for  nature 
demands  the  desertion.  Put  not  your  trust 
in  princes  — •  and  yet  put  it  rather  in  princes, 
oh,  fond  and  doting  parents,  than  in  the  blue- 
eyed  flower  of  childhood  for  which  year  after 
year,  with  labours  infinite,  you  would  buy  all 
the  sunshine  of  the  world. 

Henry's  pang  at  leaving  home  was  mainly 
the  pang  of  parting  with  his  mother.  It 
seemed  more  than  a  mere  physical  parting. 
It  was  his  childhood  that  was  parting  from 
her  for  ever.  When  he  came  to  see  them  he 
would  be  something  different, —  a  man,  an  in- 
dependent being.  As  long  ago  physically,  now 
spiritually,  the  umbilical  cord  had  been  cut. 


THE   END    OF    HOME  55 

With  Esther  and  Dot  and  Mat  the  parting 
was  hardly  a  parting,  as  it  was  rather  a 
promise  of  their  all  meeting  together  some 
day  in  a  new  place  of  freedom,  which  there 
was  a  sense  of  his  going  out  to  prepare  for 
them.  Their  way  would  be  his  way,  as  the 
mother's  could  not;  for  theirs  was  the  high- 
way of  youth,  which,  sooner  or  later,  they 
would  all  take  together,  singing  in  the  morn- 
ing sun. 

The  three  younger  sisters,  the  as  yet  un- 
opened buds  of  the  family  flower,  took  Henry's 
departure  with  the  surface  tears  and  the  cen- 
tral indifference  of  childhood.  When  a  family 
is  so  large,  it  practically  includes  two  gen- 
erations in  itself;  and  these  three  girls  were 
really  to  prove  a  generation  so  different  in 
characteristics  from  their  four  elders  as  to 
demand  a  separate  chronicle  to  themselves. 

Thus  as  Henry  drove  away  amid  his  trunks 
from  the  home  of  his  father  (genealogical 
poverty  denies  us  the  romantic  grandiloquence 
of  the  plural),  it  was  his  mother's  farewell 
arms  and  farewell  tears,  and  his  farewell 
promises  to  her,  of  which  he  was  mainly  con- 
scious. He  had  promised  "to  take  care  of 
himself,"  and  particularly  to  beware  of  damp 


56  YOUNG  LIVES 

sheets,  and  then  he  too  had  burst  into  tears. 
Indeed,  it  was  generally  a  tearful  business, 
after  which  everybody  was  glad  to  retire  into 
corners  to  subside  privately  and  dry  them- 
selves. 

Henry  crouched  in  the  corner  of  his  cab 
with  fully  half  his  cry  to  finish  out;  and, 
curiously,  all  the  time  a  sad  little  story  from 
an  old  holiday  in  the  country  kept  haunting 
him.  It  was  at  once  a  fact  and  a  fable  con- 
cerning a  happy  little  family  of  swallows, 
whose  sudden  tragedy  he  had  seen  with  his 
own  boyish,  pitying  eyes. 

In  a  little  vinery  attached  to  an  old  country 
house  which  the  Mesuriers  had  rented  for  a 
month  or  so  for  certain  successive  summers, 
two  swallows  had  built  their  nest,  and,  in  due 
course,  there  were  three  young  swallows  to 
keep  them  company.  It  was  understood  that 
the  door  of  the  vinery  must  be  left  open,  that 
the  parent  swallows  might  fly  to  and  fro  for 
food  ;  but  by  some  accident  it  chanced  that  the 
door  was  one  day  closed,  and  the  vinery  not 
visited  again  for  several  days.  When  at  last 
the  door  was  opened  again,  the  sight  that  met 
young  eyes  was  one  Henry  had  never  for- 
gotten. Three  little  starved  swallows,  hardly 


THE   END   OF   HOME  57 

bigger  than  butterflies,  lay  upon  the  floor, 
and  from  the  nest  above  hung  the  long  horse- 
hairs with  which  the  parents  had  vainly 
sought  to  anchor  them  safely  to  the  home. 
But  still  sadder  details  were  forthcoming, 
when  the  children,  who  had  been  wondering 
what  had  become  of  the  parents,  had  suddenly 
discovered  their  wasted  bodies  in  the  grass 
a  yard  or  two  away  from  the  vinery  door.  A 
few  days  ago  this  had  been  a  happy,  thriving 
home,  and  now  it  was  absolutely  desolated, 
done  away  with  for  ever.  It  needed  no  ex- 
ceptional imagination  or  sympathy  to  con- 
ceive the  agonised  longing  of  the  parents,  as 
they  had  dashed  themselves  again  and  again 
upon  that  cruel,  unyielding  door,  hearing  the 
piteous  cries  of  their  young  ones  within,  and 
the  anguish  in  which  their  exhausted  little 
lives  had  at  last  gone  out.  The  young 
swallows  had  died  for  lack  of  food;  but  the 
old  ones  had  died  —  for  love.  Had  some 
other  hand  brought  them  food,  would  the 
young  ones  have  missed  the  old  ones  like 
that  ? 


CHAPTER   VII 

A  LINK  WITH   CIVILISATION 

ON  the  afternoon  following  Henry's  departure, 
Esther  went  out  for  a  walk,  and  she  came 
presently  to  a  pretty  little  house  half  hidden 
in  its  big  garden.  A  well-kept  lawn,  richly 
bathed  in  sunlight,  flashed  through  the  trees; 
and,  opening  the  gate  and  following  the  tree- 
shaded  path  along  one  side  of  the  house, 
Esther  presently  mounted  to  a  small  terrace, 
where,  as  she  had  hoped,  she  came  upon  a 
dainty  little  lady  watering  her  flowers. 

"Why,  Esther,  it's  you!  How  sweet  of 
you !  I  was  just  dying  to  see  you  ! "  exclaimed 
the  little  lady,  turning  a  pretty,  but  some- 
what worn,  and  brilliantly  sad  face  from  her 
gardening.  "Just  let  me  finish  this  thirsty 
bed,  and  then  you  must  give  me  a  kiss. 
There!" 

Then  the  two  embraced;  and  as  Mrs. 
Myrtilla  Williamson  held  Esther  at  arm's 
length  and  looked  at  her  admiringly,  — 


A   LINK  WITH   CIVILISATION      59 

"How  pretty  you  look  to-day!"  she  ex- 
claimed, generously.  "That  new  hat's  a 
great  success.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  mauve  was 
your  colour?  Turn  round.  Yes,  dear,  you 
look  charming.  Where  in  the  world,  I 
wonder,  did  you  all  get  that  grand  look  of 
yours  from?  —  I  don't  mean  your  good  looks 
merely,  but  that  look  of  distinction.  Your 
father  and  mother  have  it  too;  but  where  did 
they  get  it  from?  You're  a  puzzle-family 
—  all  of  you.  But  would  n't  you  like  a  cup  of 
tea?  Come  in,"  and  she  led  the  way  indoors 
to  a  tiny,  sweet-smelling  boudoir  on  the  left 
of  the  hall,  of  which  a  dainty  glimpse,  with 
its  books  and  water-colours  and  bibelots,  was 
to  be  caught  from  the  terrace. 

Everything  about  Myrtilla  Williamson  was 
scrupulously,  determinedly  dainty,  from  the 
flowered  tea-gown  about  her  slim,  girlish 
figure,  — her  predilection  for  that  then  novel 
and  suspected  garment  was  regarded  as  a  sure 
mark  of  a  certain  Parisian  levity  by  her 
neighbours,  — to  her  just  a  little  "precious  " 
enunciation.  In  France,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  she  would  almost  certainly  have 
been  a  visitor  at  the  Hotel  Rambouillet,  and 
to-day  she  was  mysteriously  and  disapprov- 


60  YOUNG  LIVES 

ingly  spoken  of   as  "aesthetic."     She  had  a 
look  as  if  she  had  tripped  out  of  a  Japanese 
fan,   and  slept    at    night  in  a  pot-pourri    jar. 
And    she   had    brains,  those   good    things  - 
brains. 

Her  name  was  very  like  her  life,  one-half 
of  which  might  be  described  as  Myrtilla, 
the  other  half  as  Williamson.  She  was  Myr- 
tilla during  the  day,  dabbling  with  her  water- 
colours,  her  flowers,  or  her  books ;  but  at  six 
o'clock  each  afternoon,  with  the  sound  of 
aggressive  masculine  boots  in  the  hall,  her 
life  suddenly  changed  with  a  sigh  to  William- 
son. The  Williamson  half  of  her  life  was  so 
clumsily,  so  grotesquely  ill-matched  with  the 
Myrtilla  half  that  it  was,  and  probably  will 
always  remain,  a  mystery  why  she  had  ever 
attempted  so  tasteless  and  inconvenient  an 
addition,  —  a  mystery,  however,  far  from 
unique  in  the  history  of  those  mysteriously 
stupid  unhappy  marriages  with  evident  boors 
which  refined  and  charming  women  will,  it 
is  to  be  feared,  go  on  making  to  the  end  of 
the  human  chapter. 

It  was  perhaps  a  day  hardly  less  interesting 
for  Myrtilla  than  for  the  young  people  them- 
selves when  she  had  first  met  Henry  and 


A  LINK  WITH   CIVILISATION      61 

Esther  Mesurier.  Before,  in  the  dull  bour- 
geois society  into  which  Williamson  had 
transplanted  her  from  London,  she  had  found 
none  with  whom  she  dared  be  her  natural 
Myrtilla.  There  she  was  expected  to  be 
Williamson  to  the  bone.  Henry  and  Esther, 
however,  were  only  too  grateful  for  Myrtilla, 
through  whom  was  to  come  to  them  the 
revelation  of  some  minor  graces  of  life  for 
which  they  had  the  instincts,  but  on  which 
they  had  lacked  instruction ;  and  who,  still 
more  important,  at  least  for  Henry,  was  to  be 
their  first  fragile  link  with  certain  strenuous 
new  northern  writers,  translations  of  whom 
in  every  tongue  had  just  then  descended, 
Gothlike,  upon  Europe,  to  the  great  energising 
of  its  various  literatures.  She  it  was  too  who 
first  handed  them  the  fretted  golden  key  to 
the  enchanted  garden  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites, 
and  the  striking  head  of  the  young  Dante  in 
sepia,  which  had  hung  in  a  sort  of  shrine- 
recess  in  Henry's  study,  had  been  copied  for 
him  from  Rossetti's  sketch  by  Myrtilla' s  own 
hand. 

She  had,  too,  one  of  the  most  precious 
gifts  for  friendship,  the  gift  of  unselfish 
and  diligent  and  progressive  appreciation 


62  YOUNG   LIVES 

of  all  a  friend's  good  points.  She  never 
flattered;  but  she  never  missed  the  smallest 
opportunity  for  praise.  She  was  one  of 
those  rare  people  who  make  you  feel  happy 
in  yourself,  who  send  you  away  somehow 
dignified,  profitably  raised  in  your  own 
esteem;  just  as  others  have  a  mysterious 
power  of  dejecting  you  in  your  proudest 
moments.  If  you  had  any  charm,  however 
shy,  Myrtilla  Williamson  would  find  it,  and 
send  you  away  with  a  great  gush  of  gratitude 
to  her  because  it  had  been  found  at  last. 
This  was  perhaps  the  greatest  charm  of  her 
clever  letters;  they  were  all  about  "you,"  — 
not,  of  course,  that  you  didn't  want  to  hear 
about  her.  But  frequently  all  she  told  you 
of  herself  was  her  name.  Perhaps  she  would 
write  in  the  half-hour  that  remained  between, 
say,  a  visit  from  Esther  and  the  arrival  of 
Williamson,  to  fix  in  a  few  intimate  vivid 
words  the  charm  of  their  afternoon  together, 
and  tell  Esther  in  some  new  gratifying 
way  what  she  was  to  her  and  why  and  how 
she  was  it;  or  when  Henry  had  been  there 
—  even  more  carefully  in  the  absence  of 
Williamson — to  read  her  his  new  poem,  she 
would  write  him  a  long  letter  of  literary 


A   LINK  WITH   CIVILISATION      63 

criticism,  just  perceptibly  vibrating  with  the 
emotion  she  might  have  felt  for  the  romantic 
young  poet,  whom  she  allowed  to  call  himself 
her  "cavaliere  servente,"  had  she  not  been 
Williamson  as  well  as  Myrtilla,  and  had  she 
not,  as  she  somewhat  unscientifically  declared, 
been  old  enough  to  be  his  mother. 

"Well,"  she  said,  as  they  sipped  their  tea, 
"so  Henry  's  really  gone.  He  slipped  round 
to  bid  me  a  sort  of  good-bye  yesterday,  and 
told  me  the  whole  story.  On  the  whole,  I  'm 
glad,  though  I  know  how  you'll  miss  each 
other.  But  I  'm  sorriest  for  your  mother. 
Yes,  yes,  I  'm  sorry  for  her.  You  must  try 
to  make  it  up  to  her,  dear  child.  I  think 
just  that,  above  all  things,  would  make  me  fear 
to  be  a  mother.  One  can  do  without  chil- 
dren," and  there  was  a  certain  implication  in 
the  conversational  atmosphere  that  children 
of  the  name  of  Williamson  had  been  merci- 
fully spared  the  world;  "but  when  once  they 
have  come  into  one's  life,  it  must  be  terrible 
to  see  them  go  out  again.  I  should  like  to 
come  round  and  have  a  little  talk  with  your 
mother.  I  wonder  if  she  'd  care  to  see  me?  " 

"So  long  as  you  don't  come  in  your  tea- 
gown,"  said  Esther,  with  a  laugh. 


64  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  Cruel  child !  "  and  then  with  a  way  she 
had  of  suddenly  finding  something  she  wanted 
to  hear  of  among  the  interests  of  her  friends, 
"Now,"  she  said,  "tell  me  something  about 
Mike.  I  suppose  the  course  of  true  love  runs 
as  smoothly  as  ever.  Happy  children  !  Give 
him  my  love  when  you  see  him,  won't  you?  " 

Esther  told  all  there  was  to  tell  about 
Mike  up-to-date,  and  wished  she  could  have 
repaid  her  friend's  sympathetic  interest  with 
a  request  for  something  similar  about  Wil- 
liamson. But  it  was  tacitly  understood  that 
there  was  nothing  further  to  be  said  on  that 
subject,  and  that  the  news  of  Myrtilla's  life 
could  hardly  again  take  any  more  excitingly 
personal  form  than  the  bric-a-brac  excitements 
of  art  or  literature,  —  though  indeed  art  and 
literature  were,  to  be  just  to  them,  far  more 
than  bric-a-brac  in  the  life  of  Myrtilla  Wil- 
liamson. They  were,  indeed,  it  was  easy  to 
see,  a  very  sustaining  religion  for  the  lonely 
little  woman  who,  having  no  children  to 
study,  and  having  completed  her  studies  of 
Williamson,  was  driven  a  good  deal  upon  the 
study  and  development  of  herself.  The  Wil- 
liamson half  of  the  day  provided  her  fully 
with  opportunities  for  the  practice  of  all  the 


A   LINK  WITH   CIVILISATION      65 

philosophy  she  was  likely  to  acquire  from 
writers  ancient  and  modern,  and  for  the 
absorption  of  all  the  consolation  history  and 
biography  was  likely  to  afford  in  the  stories 
of  women  similarly  circumstanced.  It  is  to 
be  feared  that  Myrtilla  not  only  wore  tea- 
gowns  in  advance  of  her  time,  but  was  also 
somewhat  prematurely  something  of  a  "new" 
woman;  but  this  was  a  subject  on  which  she 
really  did  very  little  to  "poison"  Esther's 
"young  mind."  Esther's  young  mind,  in 
common  with  those  of  her  two  subsequent 
sisters,  was  little  in  need  of  "poisoning" 
from  outside  on  such  subjects.  Indeed,  it  was 
a  curious  phenomenon  to  observe  how  all 
these  young  minds,  sprung  from  a  stock  of 
such  ancient,  unquestioning  faith,  had,  so  to 
say,  been  born  "poisoned;"  or,  to  state  the 
matter  less  metaphorically,  had  all  been  born 
with  instincts  for  the  most  pitiless  and  effort- 
less reasoning  on  all  subjects  human  and 
divine. 

As  the  hour  approached  when  poor  Myrtilla 
must  change  back  to  Williamson,  Esther  rose 
to  say  good-bye. 

"Come   again   soon,    dear   girl;  you  don't 
know  the  good  you  do  me. " 
5 


66  YOUNG   LIVES 

The  good,  dear  woman  was  entirely  done 
by  her  unwearied,  sympathetic  discussion  of 
the  affairs  and  dreams  of  Esther,  Mike,  and 
Henry. 

"  Oh,  here  is  a  wonderful  new  book  I  in- 
tended to  talk  to  you  about.  You  can  take 
it  with  you;  I  have  finished  it.  Come  next 
week  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

As  Esther  walked  down  the  path,  Myrtilla 
watched  her,  and,  as  she  passed  out  of  the 
gate,  waved  her  a  final  kiss  of  parting,  and 
turned  indoors.  There  seemed  something 
ever  so  sad  about  her  dainty  back  as  it  disap- 
peared into  the  doorway. 

"  Poor  little  woman !  "  said  Esther  to  her- 
self, as  she  looked  to  see  the  title  of  the  book 
she  was  carrying.  It  included  a  curious  Rus- 
sian name,  the  correct  pronunciation  of  which 
she  foresaw  she  must  ask  Myrtilla  on  their 
next  meeting.  It  was  "The  Journal  of  Marie 
Bashkirtseff." 


SIDON,  the  stage  of  the  moving  events  so  far 
recorded,  though  it  makes  much  of  possessing 
a  separate  importance,  is  really  a  cross-river 
residential  suburb  of  Tyre,  the  great  seaport 
in  which  all  the  ships  of  the  world  come  to 
and  fro.  During  the  day  Sidon  is  virtually 
emptied  of  its  men-folk,  and  is  given  up  to 
perambulators  and  feminine  activities  gen- 
erally; for  the  men  have  streamed  across  the 
ferries  that  bridge  the  sunny,  boisterous 
river,  to  the  docks  and  offices  of  Tyre. 
Though  Tyre  is  not  a  very  old  city,  it  is 
not  so  new  as  to  be  denied  a  few  of  those 
associations  known  as  "historical."  Tyre 
had  once  the  honour  to  be  taken  by  Prince 
Rupert,  and  long  before  that  its  nucleus 
had  existed  as  a  monk's  ferry,  by  which 
travellers  were  rowed  across  the  river  to 
the  monastery  and  posting-house  at  Sidon. 


68  YOUNG  LIVES 

Sometimes  of  an  evening  Henry  and  Mike 
would  think  of  those  far-off  times  as  they 
looked  over  the  ferry-boat  at  the  long  lines 
of  river  lights,  with  their  restless  heaving 
reflections;  and  sometimes  they  could  picture 
to  themselves  the  green  sloping  banks  of  the 
virgin  fields,  and  hear  the  priory  bell  calling 
to  them  out  of  the  darkness.  But  such  were 
the  faintest  of  their  visions;  and  they  loved 
the  river  banks  best  as  they  are  to-day,  with 
their  Egyptian  walls  and  swarming  lights 
and  tangled  ships. 

And  whoso  should  think  that  that  sordid 
commercial  city,  given  up  to  all  the  prose 
of  trade  day  by  day,  is  not  a  poet  at 
heart,  has  never  seen  her  strange  smile  at 
evening  when  the  shops  are  shut,  and  the 
offices  empty,  and  the  men  who  know  her  not 
gone  home.  For  then  across  the  crowded 
roofs  softly  comes  a  strange  sweetness,  and 
deep  down  among  the  gloomy  wynds  of 
deserted  warehouses,  still  as  temples,  sudden 
fairies  of  sunset  dance  and  dazzle,  and  touch  the 
grimy  walls  with  soft  hands.  In  lonely  back 
rooms,  full  of  desks  and  dust,  haunted  lights 
of  evening  stand  like  splendid  apparitions ; 
and  sometimes,  if  you  lingered  at  the  top  of 


A   RHAPSODY   OF  TYRE  69 

High  Street,  beneath  the  dark  old  church, 
and  the  moon  was  out  on  the  left  of  the  stee- 
ple and  the  sunset  dying  on  the  right,  dying 
beyond  the  tangled  masts  and  fading  from 
the  river,  you  would  forget  you  were  a  city 
clerk,  and  you  would  wonder  why  the  world 
was  so  beautiful,  why  the  moon  was  made  of 
pearl,  and  what  it  was  that  called  to  you  out 
of  yonder  golden  sea;  and  your  heart  would 
fill  with  a  strange  gladness,  and  you  would 
call  back  to  those  unearthly  voices,  "  I  am 
yours,  yours,  all  yours!" 

Thus  would  this  town  of  bales  and  mer- 
chants, of  office-desks  and  stools,  make  poets 
at  evening  that  she  might  stone  them  at  noon. 
For,  of  course,  she  would  have  forgotten  it 
all  in  the  morning;  and  it  were  well  not  to 
remind  her  with  your  dreaming  eyes  of  her 
last  night's  softness.  She  will  look  back  at 
you  with  stony  misunderstanding,  and  her 
new  lover  Reality  will  sharply  box  your 
ears. 

It  is  no  use  reminding  the  Exchange  that 
it  looked  like  a  scene  from  Romeo  and  Juliet 
in  the  moonlight.  It  dare  not  admit  it.  But 
wait  patiently  till  the  evening.  Tyre  will  be 
yours  again  with  the  sunset.  She  pretends 


70  YOUNG  LIVES 

all  day  that  it  is  the  Mayor  in  the  gilded 
coach  and  the  pursy  merchantmen  she  cares 
for;  but  it  is  really  you,  a  poor  shabby  poet, 
she  loves  all  the  time,  for  you  only  does  she 
wear  her  gauzy  silks  at  evening ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  PENITENTIARY  OF  THE  MATHEMATICS 

YES,  Mike  was  some  day  to  be  another  Kean, 
and  Henry  was  to  prove  a  serious  rival  to 
Shakespeare;  but,  meanwhile,  they  were 
clerks  in  the  offices  of  Tyre. 

Of  the  rigours,  and  therefore  too  the  truancies 
and  humours  of  the  lot  official,  Mike  was  com- 
paratively so  comfortably  circumstanced  as  to 
have  little  knowledge.  His  father  was  the  king 
of  a  little  flourishing  prison  of  desks,  and  Mike 
was  one  of  the  heirs-apparent.  Consequently, 
his  lot,  though  dull,  was  seldom  bitter;  and 
many  mitigations  of  it  were  within  his  privilege. 
With  Henry  it  was  different.  He  was  a  hum- 
ble unit  among  twenty  other  slaves,  chained  to 
that  modern  substitute  for  the  galleys,  the 
desk;  and,  in  a  wicked  bargain,  he  had  con- 
tracted to  give  his  life-blood  from  nine  in  the 
morning  till  six  in  the  evening,  for  sixty  pounds 
a  year,  with  an  occasional  "  rise,"  which,  after 


72  YOUNG   LIVES 

thirty  years'  service,  might  end  in  your  having 
reached  a  proud  annual  three  hundred  for  the 
rest  of  your  maimed  and  narrowed  days. 

Henry  had  come  to  the  office  straight  from 
school,  at  the  age  of  sixteen ;  and,  though  class- 
rooms breathe  an  air  sufficiently  frigid  and 
suggestive  of  inhuman  interests  and  unmean- 
ing discipline,  the  icy  air  of  that  office  had  at 
first  almost  taken  his  breath.  The  place  was 
so  ridiculously  serious !  There  might  con- 
ceivedly  be  interests  in  the  world  worthy  of 
so  abject  an  absorption,  so  bleaching  an 
obeisance  of  the  individual;  but  Henry,  with 
the  dews  of  certain  classics  still  upon  him, 
remembered  that  anything  really  Olympian 
in  its  importance  is  always  strong  enough 
to  smile.  It  is  a  lesser  strength  that  must 
make  the  muscular  effort  of  severity.  True 
dignities,  as  often  as  possible,  stand  at  ease. 
But  here  indeed  were  no  true  strengths 
and  dignities,  —  only  prison-strengths  and 
prison-dignities.  Here  the  majesties,  the  oc- 
cupations, the  offences,  were  alike  frivolities, 
fantastically  changed  about  into  solemnities. 
That  first  impression  of  abject  bowed  heads 
and  chains  rattled  beneath  desks,  was  roughly 
correct.  For  all  that  was  human  in  a  man, 


MATHEMATICS  73 

this  was  a  prison.  These  men  who  bent  over 
foolish  papers  were  evidently  convicts  of  the 
most  desperate  character ;  so,  at  all  events, 
you  would  judge  when  occasionally  one  or 
other  of  the  prison-governors,  known  as  "  part- 
ners," passed  among  them  with  the  lash  of  his 
eye.  Such  faint  human  twittering  as  may  have 
grown  up  amongst  even  these  poor  exiles 
would  suddenly  die  into  a  silence  white  with 
fear,  as  when  the  shadow  of  a  hawk  falls  across 
the  song  of  smaller  birds. 

No  human  relations  are  acknowledged  here. 
Outside,  you  may  be  a  husband  wonderfully 
beloved  and  tragically  important ;  you  may  be 
a  man  whose  courage  has  be-medalled  your 
brave  breast;  you  maybe  a  passionate  and 
subtle  musician  in  your  private  hours;  you 
may  even  on  Sundays  be  a  much  appreciated 
vessel  of  the  divine :  but  all  such  distinctions 
are  not  current  here ;  here  they  are  foreign 
coin,  diplomas  unacknowledged  in  this  bar- 
barous realm  of  ink  and  steel.  The  more 
ignorant,  the  more  narrow,  the  more  mean, 
the  more  unnatural,  you  can  contrive  to  be, 
the  better  will  be  your  lot  in  this  sad  monas- 
tery of  Mammon.  When  the  door  hissed 
behind  you,  with  that  little  patent  pneumatic 


74  YOUNG   LIVES 

device,  you  ceased  to  be  a  human  being,  and 
began  to  be  —  the  human  machine.  All  the 
vitality  you  have  stored  within  that  pale  body 
you  are  expected  to  exhaust  here,  —  you  have 
sold  it,  don't  you  remember,  for  sixty  or  three 
hundred  pounds  a  year ;  you  are  not  expected 
to  have  any  left  over  for  pleasures.  That  will 
be  robbery.  Masters  suffer  much  from  pecu- 
lation indeed  in  this  way ;  but  a  machine  is  in 
course  of  invention  which  shall  put  an  end  to 
this,  by  the  application  of  which  to  your  heart 
the  task-master  will  know  whether  or  not  you 
have  spent  every  available  heart-beat  in  his 
slavery  during  the  day,  or  whether  you  are 
endeavouring,  you  miserable  thief,  to  steal 
home  with  a  little  remnant  of  it  for  your  chil- 
dren at  night. 

This  was  the  theory  of  the  office,  as  Henry 
once  heard  it  expressed,  with  a  cynicism  more 
brief  and  direct  from  the  lips  of  one  of  his 
task-masters ;  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  in 
certain  respects  his  experience  was  extreme. 
There  are  offices  which  are  the  ears  and  eyes 
of  activities  absorbingly  and  even  romanti- 
cally human.  To  be  in  a  shipping-office 
is  not  perhaps  to  be  the  rose,  but  it  is  to 
live  near  it,  —  the  great  rose  of  the  sea.  You 


MATHEMATICS  75 

are,  so  to  say,  a  land-sailor,  a  supercargo  left 
on  shore.  Your  office-windows  are  lashed 
with  hurricanes;  your  talk  is  frequently  of 
cyclones.  The  names  of  far  romantic  isles  are 
constantly  on  your  lips,  and  your  bills  of  lad- 
ing are  threepenny  romances  in  themselves. 
Strange  produce  of  distant  lands  are  your 
daily  concern,  and  the  four  winds  meet  at  your 
counter  with  a  savour  of  tar.  For  all  you 
know,  a  pirate  may  claim  your  attention  any 
minute  of  the  day. 

Or,  again,  to  be,  say,  in  a  corn-merchant's,  a 
clearing-house  of  the  fruitful  earth.  There  at 
your  telephone  you  may  hear  the  corn-fields 
whispering  to  you,  hear  the  wheat  waving  in  the 
wind,  and  the  thin  chatter  of  oats.  Or  you  may 
sell  butter  and  cheese  in  an  office  that  smells  of 
farms.  However  removed,  you  are  an  indirect 
agent  of  the  earth,  a  humble  go-between  of 
the  seasons  and  the  eternal  needs  of  man. 

Or,  once  more,  you  may  be  one  of  the  thou- 
sand clerks  of  a  great  manufacturer,  and  be 
humbly  related  to  one  of  the  arts  or  crafts  that 
gladden  the  eye  or  add  to  the  comforts  of 
man.  Or  even,  though  you  may  be  denied 
so  close  an  association  with  the  elements,  or 
the  arts,  you  may  be  the  pen  to  some  subtle 


76  YOUNG   LIVES 

legal  confidante  of  human  nature.  Your  office 
may  be  stored  with  records  of  human  perver- 
sity and  whimsicality.  You  may  be  the  witness 
to  fantastic  wills,  or  assist  in  the  administration 
of  the  estates  of  lunatics.  At  all  events,  you 
will  come  within  hearing  of  the  human  pas- 
sions. Misers  will  visit  you  at  times,  and  beau- 
tiful ladies  in  mourning  deep  as  their  distress ; 
and  from  your  desk  you  will  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  sombre  pageantry  of  litigious  man. 

Though  it  is  true  that  a  certain  far-off  flavour 
of  these  legal  excitements  occasionally  en- 
livened the  business  to  which  Henry  had  been 
sacrificially  indentured,  for  the  most  part  it 
was  an  abstract  parasitical  thing  which  had 
succeeded  in  persuading  other  businesses,  more 
directly  fed  from  the  human  spring,  of  its 
obliging  usefulness  in  relieving  them  of  de- 
tachable burdens.  In  fact,  it  had  no  activity  or 
interest  of  its  own  to  account  for,  so  it  pro- 
posed, in  default  of  any  such  original  reason  for 
existence,  to  look  after  the  accounts  of  others, 
as  a  self-constituted  body  of  financial  police. 
For  those  engaged  in  it,  except  those  who  had 
been  born  mentally  deformed,  or  those  who  had 
become  unnaturally  perverted  by  long  usage,  it 
was  a  sort  of  penitentiary  of  the  mathematics. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   GRASS   BETWEEN  THE   FLAG-STONES 

YES,  it  was  a  curiously  unreal  world ;  and,  for 
the  first  day  or  two,  as  Henry,  bent,  lonely  and 
bewildered,  over  his  desk,  studied  it  furtively 
with  questioning  eyes,  it  seemed  to  him  as 
though  he  had  strayed  into  some  asylum  for 
the  insane,  where  fantastic  interests  and  mock 
honours  take  the  place  of  the  real  interests 
and  honours  of  sane  human  beings. 

Part  of  the  business  of  the  firm  consisted  in 
the  collection  of  house-rents,  frequently  en- 
tailing visits  from  tenants  and  questions  of 
repairs.  A  certain  Mr.  Smith,  a  wiry  little 
grey-headed  man,  with  a  keen  face  and  a  de- 
cisive manner,  looked  after  this  branch;  and 
the  gusto  with  which  he  did  it  was  one  of 
Henry's  earliest  and  most  instructive  amaze- 
ments. House-repairs  were  quite  evidently 
his  poetry,  and  he  never  seemed  so  happy  as 
when  passionately  wrangling  with  a  tenant  on 


78  YOUNG   LIVES 

some  question  of  drains.  The  words  "  cess- 
pool" and  "  wet-trap" — words  to  which  I  don't 
pretend  to  attach  any  meaning  —  seemed  to  be 
particular  favourites  of  his.  In  fact,  an  hour 
seldom  passed  without  their  falling  from  his 
lips.  But  Mr.  Smith's  great  opportunity  was  a 
gale.  For  that  always  meant  an  exciting  har- 
vest of  dislodged  chimney-pots,  flying  slates, 
and  smashed  skylights,  which  would  impart  an 
energetic  interest  to  his  life  for  days. 

Again,  in  Henry's  department — for  the  office 
was  cut  into  two  halves,  with  about  ten  clerks 
in  each,  the  partners  having,  of  course,  their 
own  private  offices,  from  which  they  might  dart 
out  at  any  moment — there  was  a  certain  little 
fussy  chief  clerk  who  was  obviously  a  person 
of  very  mysterious  importance.  He  was  fre- 
quently away,  evidently  on  missions  of  great 
moment,  for  always  on  his  return  he  would  be 
closeted  immediately  with  one  or  other  of  the 
partners,  who  in  turn  seemed  to  consider  him 
important  too,  and  would  sometimes  treat  him 
almost  like  one  of  themselves,  actually  con- 
descending to  laugh  with  him  now  and  again 
over  some  joke,  evidently  as  mysterious  as  all 
the  rest.  This  Mr.  Perkins  seldom  noticed  the 
juniors  in  his  department,  though  occasionally 


GRASS  BETWEEN  FLAG-STONES     79 

he  would  select  one  of  them  to  accompany 
him  on  one  of  his  missions  to  clients  of  the 
firm ;  and  they  would  start  off  together,  as  you 
may  see  a  plumber  and  his  apprentice  some- 
times in  the  streets,  —  the  proud  master- 
plumber  in  front,  and  the  little  apprentice 
plumber  behind,  carrying  the  lead  pipe  and 
the  iron  smelting-pot. 

Now,  did  Mr.  Smith  really  take  such  a 
heart- interest  in  cess-pools  and  wet-traps  as  he 
appeared  to  do?  and  did  Mr.  Perkins  really 
think  he  mattered  all  that? 

These  were  two  of  the  earliest  questions 
which  Henry  asked  himself,  and  as  time 
brought  the  answers  to  them,  and  kindred 
questions,  there  were  unexpected  elements  of 
comfort  for  the  heart  of  the  boy,  longing  so 
desperately  in  that  barren  place  for  any  hint 
of  the  human  touch.  One  day  Mr.  Smith 
startled  him  by  mentioning  Dickens,  and  even 
Charles  Lamb.  It  was  a  kindly  recognition 
of  Mesurier's  rumoured  interest  in  literature. 
Henry  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "  Oh, 
you  read  then  !  "  he  exclaimed.  Of  anything 
so  human  as  reading  he  had  suspected  no  one 
in  that  office. 

Then  as  to  the  great  Mr.  Perkins,  the  time 


8o  YOUNG   LIVES 

came  when  he  was  to  prove  very  human 
indeed.  For,  dying  suddenly  one  day,  his 
various  work  had  to  pass  into  other  hands ;  and, 
bit  by  bit,  it  began  to  leak  out  that  those  mis- 
sions had  not  been  so  industriously  devoted  to 
the  interests  of  the  firm,  nor  been  so  carefully 
executed,  as  had  been  imagined.  For  Mr. 
Perkins,  it  transpired,  had  been  fond  of  his 
pleasures,  could  appreciate  wine,  and  liked 
an  occasional  informal  holiday.  So,  posthu- 
mously, he  began  to  wear  for  Henry  a  faint 
halo  of  humanity. 

Indeed,  it  did  not  take  Henry  many  days  to 
realise  that,  as  grass  will  force  its  way  even 
between  the  flag-stones   in  a  prison-yard,  no 
little  humanity  contrived  to  support  its  exist- 
ence even  in  this  dead  place.     By  degrees,  he 
realised  that  these   apparently  colourless  and 
frigid  figures  about  him  had  each  their  separ- 
ate individuality,  engaging  or  otherwise ;   that 
their  interests  were  by  no  means  centred  on 
the  dull  pages  before  them ;   and  that,  for  the 
most  part,  they  were  very  much  in  a  like  case 
with  himself.     Although  thus    immured   from 
the  world  of  realities,  they  still  maintained,  in 
vigorous    activity,  many  healthy   outdoor    in- 
terests, and  were  quite  keen  in  their  enthusiasm 


GRASS  BETWEEN  FLAG-STONES     81 

for,  and  remarkably  instructed  in,  the  latest 
developments  of  horse-racing,  football,  and 
prize-fighting.  Likewise,  they  had  retained  an 
astonishingly  fresh  and  unimpaired  interest  in 
women,  and  still  enjoyed  the  simple  earth- 
born  pleasures  of  the  glass  and  the  pipe. 

As  he  understood  this,  Henry  began  to  feel 
more  at  home ;  and,  as  the  characters  of  his 
associates  revealed  themselves,  he  began  to  see 
that  there  were  amongst  them  several  pleasant 
and  indeed  merry  fellows,  and  that,  after  all,  for- 
tune might  have  thrown  him  into  much  worse 
company.  They,  on  their  side,  making  like 
discoveries  in  him,  he  presently  found  himself 
admitted  to  their  freemasonry,  and  initiated 
into  their  many  secret  ways  of  mitigating  their 
lot,  and  shortening  their  long  days.  Thus, 
this  chill,  stern  world  of  automata,  which,  on 
first  sight,  looked  as  if  no  human  word  or 
smile  or  jest  could  escape  the  detection  of 
its  iron  laws,  revealed,  when  you  were  once 
inside  it,  an  under-world  of  pleasant  escapes 
and  exciting  truancies,  of  which,  as  you  grew 
accustomed  to  the  risks  and  general  condi- 
tions of  the  life,  you  were  able  skilfully  to 
avail  yourself. 

The  main    principle   of  these  was  to  seem 
6 


82  YOUNG   LIVES 

to  spend  twice  as  much  time  on  each  task 
as  it  needed,  that  you  might  have  the  other 
half  for  such  private  uses  as  were  within  your 
reach,  —  to  elongate  dinner-hours  at  both  ends 
so  adroitly,  and  on  such  carefully  selected 
propitious  occasions,  that  the  elongation,  or 
at  least  the  whole  extent  of  it,  would  pass 
unobserved;  and,  in  general,  to  gain  time, 
any  waste  ends  of  five  minutes  or  quarter 
hours,  on  all  possible  occasions.  If  the  reader 
calls  this  shirking  and  robbery,  he  must. 
Technically,  no  doubt,  it  was ;  but  these  clerks, 
without  so  formulating  it,  merely  exercised 
the  right  of  all  oppressed  beings  liberally  to 
interpret  to  their  own  advantage,  where  pos- 
sible, the  terms  of  an  unjust  contract  which 
grinding  economic  conditions  had  compelled 
them  to  make.  They  had  been  forced  to 
promise  too  much  in  exchange  for  too  little, 
and  they  equalised  the  disparity  where  they 
could. 

Whether  they  spent  the  time  thus  hoarded 
in  a  profitable  fashion,  is  a  question  of  per- 
sonal definition.  It  was  usually  expended  in 
companies  of  twos  or  threes,  with  a  pipe  and 
a  pot  of  beer  and  much  spirited  talk,  in  the 
warm  corners  of  adjacent  taverns;  and,  so 


GRASS  BETWEEN  FLAG-STONES     83 

long  as  you  don't  drink  too  much,  there 
has  perhaps  been  invented  none  pleasanter 
than  that  old-fashioned  way  of  spending  an 
hour.  Certainly,  it  was  the  way  for  ale  to 
taste  good,  and  a  pipe  to  seem  the  most  sat- 
isfying of  all  earthly  consolations.  It  was 
almost  worth  the  bondage  to  enjoy  the  keen 
relish  of  the  escape. 

By  degrees,  though  the  youngest  there, 
Henry  came  to  be  allowed  a  certain  leader- 
ship in  these  sorties  of  the  human  element. 
He  made  it  his  business  to  stimulate  these 
unthrifty  instincts,  and  to  fan  the  welcome 
sparks  of  natural  idleness ;  and  so  successfully 
that  at  times  there  seemed  to  have  entered 
with  him  into  that  gloomy  place  a  certain 
Bacchic  influence,  which  now  and  again  would 
prompt  his  comrades  to  such  daring  clutches 
of  animated  release,  that  the  spirit  of  it  even 
pervaded  the  penetralia  of  the  senior  part- 
ner's office,  with  the  result  that  some  mishap 
of  truancy  would  undo  the  genial  work  of 
months,  and  precipitate  upon  them  for  a  while 
the  rigours  of  a  ten-fold  discipline.  It  was 
after  such  an  occasion  that,  in  writing  to 
James  Mesurier  as  to  the  progress  of  his  son, 
old  Mr.  Septimus  Lingard  had  paid  Henry 


84  YOUNG   LIVES 

one  of  the  proudest  compliments  of  his  young 
days.  "  I  fear  that  we  shall  make  little  of 
your  son  Henry,"  he  wrote.  "  His  head  seems 
full  of  literature,  and  he  is  so  idle  that  he  is 
demoralising  the  whole  office." 

It  took  Henry  more  than  a  year  to  win  that 
testimonial;  but  the  odds  had  been  so  great 
against  him  that  the  wonder  is  he  was  ever 
able  to  win  it  at  all.  Mr.  Lingard  wrote 
"demoralise."  It  was  his  way  of  saying 
"  humanise." 


CHAPTER  XI 

HUMANITY   IN   HIGH    PLACES 

ONE  day,  however,  Henry  was  to  make  the 
still  more  surprising  discovery,  that  not  only 
were  the  clerks  human  beings,  but  that  one 
of  the  partners  —  only  one  of  them  —  was  also 
human.  He  made  this  discovery  about  the 
senior  partner,  whose  old-world  figure  and 
quaint  name,  Septimus  Searle  Lingard,  had, 
in  spite  of  his  severity,  attracted  him  by  a 
certain  musty  distinction. 

A  stranger  figure  than  Septimus  Searle 
Lingard  has  seldom  walked  the  streets  of  any 
town.  Though  not  actually  much  over  sixty, 
you  would  have  said  he  must  be  a  thousand ; 
his  abnormally  long,  narrow,  shaven  face  was 
so  thin  and  gaunt  and  hollowed,  and  his  tall, 
upright  figure  was  so  painfully  fragile,  that  his 
black  broadcloth  seemed  almost  too  heavy  for 
the  worn  frame  inside  it.  And  nothing  in  the 
world  else  was  ever  so  piercingly  solemn  as 


86  YOUNG   LIVES 

his  keen  weary  old  eyes.  With  his  tall  silk 
hat,  his  thin  white  hair,  his  long  white  face, 
long  black  frock-coat,  and  black  trousers,  he 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  distinguished 
skeleton.  Henry  could  never  be  quite  sure 
whether  he  was  to  be  classed  as  a  "  character," 
or  as  a  genuine  personality.  One  thing  was 
certain,  that,  sometime  or  other,  or  many  times, 
in  his  life  he  had  done  something,  or  many 
things,  which  had  won  for  him  a  respect  as 
deep  as  his  solemnity  of  aspect ;  and  certainly, 
if  gravity  of  demeanour  goes  for  anything,  all 
the  owls  of  all  the  ages  in  collaboration  could 
not  have  produced  an  expression  of  time- 
honoured  wisdom  so  convincing.  Sometimes 
his  old  lantern-jaws  would  emit  an  uncanny 
cackle  of  a  laugh,  and  a  ghastly  flicker  of 
humour  play  across  his  parchment  features ; 
but  these  only  deepened  the  general  sense  of 
solemnity,  as  the  hoot  of  a  night-bird  deepens 
the  loneliness  of  some  desolate  hollow  among 
the  hills. 

It  was  this  strange  old  ghost  of  a  man  that 
was  to  be  the  next  to  turn  human,  and  it  came 
about  like  this.  Right  away  at  the  top  of 
the  building  was  a  lonely  room  where  the  sun 
never  shone,  in  which  were  stored  away  the  old 


HUMANITY   IN   HIGH    PLACES     87 

account-books,  diaries,  and  various  dead-and- 
done-with  documents  of  the  firm  ;  and  here  too 
was  deposited,  from  time  to  time,  various  wreck- 
age of  the  same  kind  from  other  businesses 
whose  last  offices  had  been  done  by  the  firm, 
and  whose  records  were  still  preserved,  in  the 
unlikely  event  of  any  chance  resurrection  of 
claim  upon,  or  interest  in,  their  long  forgotten 
names. 

Here  crumbled  the  last  relics  of  many  an 
ambitious  enterprise,  —  great  ledgers,  with  their 
covers  still  fresh,  lay  like  slabs,  from  which,  if 
you  wiped  away  the  dust,  the  gilded  names  of 
foundered  companies  would  flash  as  from  gaudy 
tombstones ;  letter-books  bursting  with  letters 
that  no  eye  would  read  again  so  long  as  the 
world  lasted ;  yellow  title-deeds  from  which  all 
the  virtue  had  long  since  exhaled,  and  to  which 
no  dangling  of  enormous  seals  could  any  longer 
lend  a  convincing  air  of  importance.  Here 
everything  was  dead  and  dusty  as  an  old  shoe. 
The  dry  bones  in  the  valley  of  Askelon  were 
as  children  skipping  in  the  morning  sun  com- 
pared with  the  dusty  death  that  mouldered  and 
mouldered  in  this  lonely  locked -up  room, — 
this  catacomb  of  dead  businesses. 

It  was  seldom  necessary  to  visit  this  room ; 


88  YOUNG   LIVES 

but  occasionally  Henry  would  find  an  excuse 
to  loiter  an  hour  there,  for  there  was  a  certain 
dreary  romance  about  the  place,  and  the  almost 
choking  smell  of  old  leather  seemed  to  promise 
all  sorts  of  buried  secrets.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  the  place  ever  adequately  gratified  the 
sense  of  mystery  it  excited ;  but,  after  all,  to 
excite  the  sense  of  mystery  is  perhaps  better 
than  to  gratify  it,  and,  considering  its  poor 
material,  this  room  was  quite  a  clever  old 
mysteriarch. 

One  day,  however,  Henry  came  upon  some 
writing  that  did  greatly  interest  him,  though 
it  was  almost  contemporary.  It  was  old  Mr. 
Septimus  Lingard's  diary  for  the  year  preced- 
ing, which  he  had  got  hold  of,  —  not  his  private 
diary,  but  the  entirely  public  official  diary  in 
which  he  kept  account  of  the  division  of  his 
days  among  his  various  clients  —  for  the  most 
part  an  unexciting  record.  But  at  the  end  of 
the  book,  on  one  of  the  general  memoranda 
pages,  Henry  noticed  a  square  block  of  writing 
which,  to  his  surprise,  proved  to  be  a  long 
quotation  from  a  book  which  the  old  man  had 
been  reading,  —  on  the  Immortality  of  the 
soul ! 

Had  old  Mr.  Septimus  Lingard  a  soul  too,  a 


HUMANITY   IN    HIGH   PLACES     89 

soul  that  troubled  him  maybe,  a  soul  that  had 
its  moving  memories,  and  its  immortal  aspira- 
tions? Yes,  somewhere  hidden  in  that  strange 
legal  document  of  a  body,  there  was  evidently 
a  soul.  Mr.  Lingard  had  a  soul ! 

But  wait  a  moment,  here  was  an  addition  of 
the  old  man's  own !  The  passage  quoted  had 
been  of  death  and  its  possible  significance, 
and  it  was  just  a  sigh,  a  fear,  the  old  man  had 
breathed  after  it :  How  high  has  the  winding- 
sheet  encompassed  my  own  bosom  ! 

Solemn  as  were  the  words  in  themselves, 
they  seemed  doubly  so  in  that  lonely  room ; 
and  Henry  was  glad  to  lock  the  door  and 
return  to  the  comparatively  living  world  down- 
stairs. But  from  that  moment  old  Mr.  Lin- 
gard was  transfigured  in  his  eyes.  Beneath  all 
the  sternness  of  his  exterior,  the  grimness  of 
the  business  interests  which  seemed  to  absorb 
him,  Henry  had  discovered  the  blessed  human 
spring.  And  he  came  too  to  wear  a  certain 
pathos  and  sanctity  in  Henry's  eyes,  as  he 
remembered  how  old  a  man  he  was,  and  that 
secretly  all  this  time,  while  he  seemed  so  busy 
with  this  public  company  and  another,  he  was 
quietly  preparing  to  die.  From  this  moment 
tasks  done  for  him  came  to  have  a  certain  joy 


90  YOUNG  LIVES 

in  them.  For  his  sake,  as  it  were,  he  began  to 
understand  how  you  might  take  a  pride  in 
doing  well  something  that,  in  your  opinion, 
was  not  worth  doing;  and  one  day  when  the 
old  man,  well  satisfied  with  some  work  he  had 
done,  patted  him  kindly  on  the  back  and  said, 
"  We  '11  make  a  business  man  of  you  after 
all !  "  the  tears  started  to  his  eyes,  and  for  a 
moment  he  almost  hoped  that  they  would. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DAMON  AND   PYTHIAS 

BY  an  odd  coincidence,  the  night  which  had 
seen  Henry  and  Esther  confront  their  father, 
had  seen,  in  another  household  in  which  the 
young  people  counted  another  member  of 
their  secret  society  of  youth,  a  similar  but 
even  less  seemly  clash  between  the  genera- 
tions. Ned  Hazell  would  be  a  poet  too,  and 
a  painter  as  well,  and  perhaps  a  romantic  actor ; 
but  his  father's  tastes  for  his  son's  future  lay  in 
none  of  these  directions,  and  Ned  was  for  the 
present  in  cotton.  Now  the  elder  Mr.  Hazell 
was  a  man  of  violently  convivial  habits,  and 
the  bonhomie,  with  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
enliven  bar-parlours  up  till  eleven  of  an  even- 
ing, was  apt  to  suffer  a  certain  ungenial  trans- 
formation as  he  reached  his  own  front  door. 
There  the  wit  would  fail  upon  his  lips,  the 
twinkle  die  out  of  his  glance,  and  an  unaccount- 
able ferocity  towards  the  household  that  was 


92  YOUNG   LIVES 

waiting  up  for  him  take  their  place.  When 
possible,  he  would  fix  upon  some  trivial  reason 
to  give  an  air  of  plausibility  to  this  curious 
change  in  him ;  but  if  that  were  not  forthcoming, 
he  would,  it  appeared,  fly  into  a  violent  rage 
for  just  that  very  reason. 

However,  on  this  particular  night,  Heaven 
had  provided  him  with  an  heroic  occasion. 
His  son,  he  discovered,  was  for  once  out 
later  than  his  father.  In  what  haunt  of  vice, 
or  low  place  of  drinking,  he  was  at  the 
moment  ensnared,  no  one  better  than  his 
father  could  imagine.  The  opportunity  was 
one  not  to  be  missed.  The  outraged  parent 
at  last  realised  that  he  had  borne  with  him 
long  enough,  borne  long  enough  with  his 
folderols  of  art  and  nonsense;  and  so  deter- 
mined was  he  on  the  instant  that  he  would 
have  no  more  of  it,  that,  with  a  quite  remark- 
able energy,  he  had  thereupon  repaired  to  his 
son's  room,  opened  the  window,  and  begun 
vigorously  to  throw  his  pretty  editions,  his 
dainty  water-colours,  his  drawers  full  of 
letters,  his  cast  of  the  Venus  of  Milo,  out  on 
to  the  lawn,  upon  which  at  the  moment  a 
heavy  rain  was  also  falling. 

In   the   very   whirlwind   of    his    righteous 


DAMON   AND   PYTHIAS  93 

vandalism  his  son  had  returned,  and,  being 
a  muscular,  hot-blooded  lad,  had  taken  his 
father  by  the  throat,  called  him  a  drunken 
beast,  and  hurled  him  to  the  floor,  where  he 
pinned  him  down  with  a  knee  on  his  chest, 
and  might  conceivably  have  made  an  end  of 
him,  but  for  the  interference  of  mother  and 
sisters,  who  succeeded  at  last  in  getting 
the  dazed  and  somewhat  sobered  parent  to 
bed. 

Having  raked  together  from  the  sodden 
debris  beneath  his  window  some  disfigured 
remains  of  his  poor  treasures,  Ned  Hazell  had 
left  the  house  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing, in  good  earnest  for  ever. 

When  he  confided  the  excitements  of  the 
night  to  Henry  at  lunch  next  day,  and  heard 
in  return  his  friend's  news,  nothing  could  be 
more  plain  than  that  they  should  set  up  lodg- 
ings together;  and  it  was,  therefore,  to  the 
rooms  of  which  Ned  was  already  in  possession 
that  Henry's  cab  had  toppled  with  his  various 
belongings,  after  those  tearful  farewells  at  his 
father's  door.  Esther  followed  presently  to 
help  make  the  place  straight  and  dainty  for 
the  two  boys,  and  having  left  them,  late  that 
evening,  with  flowers  in  all  the  jars,  and  the 


94  YOUNG   LIVES 

curtains  as  they  should  be,  they  were  fairly 
launched  on  their  new  life  together. 

In  Mike  Henry  had  a  stanch  friend  and  an 
admirer  against  all  comers,  and  in  Henry 
Mike  had  a  friend  and  admirer  no  less  loyal; 
but  their  friendship  was  one  for  which  an 
on-looker  might  have  found  it  less  easy  to 
give  reasons  than  for  that  of  Henry  and  Ned. 
Mike  and  Henry  loved  each  other,  it  would 
appear,  less  for  any  correspondence  in  dispo- 
sitions or  tastes,  as  just  because  they  were 
Mike  and  Henry.  Right  away  down  in  their 
natures  there  was  evidently  some  central 
affinity  which  operated  even  in  spite  of  sur- 
face contradictions.  There  was  much  of  this 
intrinsic  quality  in  the  affection  of  Henry  and 
Ned  also,  but  it  was  much  more  to  be  accounted 
for  by  evident  mutual  sympathies.  It  was 
largely  the  impassioned  fellowship  of  two 
craftsmen  in  love  with  the  same  art.  Both 
had  their  literary  ambitions;  but,  irrespective 
of  those,  they  both  loved  poetry.  Yes,  how 
they  loved  it !  Ned  was  perhaps  particularly 
a  born  appreciator;  and  it  was  worth  seeing 
how  the  tears  would  come  into  his  fine  eyes, 
as  his  voice  shook  with  tenderness  over  a  fine 
phrase  or  a  noble  passage.  They  had  discov- 


DAMON   AND   PYTHIAS  95 

ered  some  of  the  most  thrilling  things  in 
English  literature  together,  at  that  impres- 
sionable age  when  such  things  mean  most  to 
us.  Together  they  had  read  Keats  for  the 
first  wonderful  time;  together  learned  Shake- 
speare's Sonnets  by  heart;  together  rolled 
out  over  tavern-tables  the  sumptuous  cadences 
of  De  Quincey.  Wonderful  indeed,  and  never 
to  be  forgotten,  were  those  evenings  when,  the 
day  at  last  over,  they  would  leave  their  offices 
behind  them,  and,  while  the  sunset  was  turn- 
ing the  buildings  of  Tyre  into  enchanted 
towers,  and  a  clemency  of  release  breathed 
upon  its  streets,  steal  to  the  quiet  corner  of 
their  favourite  tavern ;  to  drink  port  and  share 
their  last  new  author,  or  their  own  latest 
rhymes,  and  then  to  emerge  again,  with  high 
calm  hearts  and  eloquent  eyes,  beneath  the 
splendid  stars. 

All  the  arts  within  their  reach  they  thus 
shared  together,  —  pictures,  music,  theatres, 
—  in  a  fine  comradeship.  Together  they  had 
bravoed  the  great  tragedians,  and  together 
hopelessly  worshipped  the  beautiful  faces, 
enskied  and  sainted,  of  famous  actresses. 
In  fact,  they  were  the  Damon  and  Pythias  of 
Tyre. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

DAMON   AND   PYTHIAS   AT  THE  THEATRE 

ONCE,  long  before  the  beginning  of  this 
story,  Damon  and  Pythias  were  sitting  in  a 
theatre  together,  with  the  wonderful  overture 
just  beginning  to  steal  through  their  senses. 

Ah,  violins,  whither  would  you  take  their 
souls?  You  call  to  them  like  the  voice  of 
one  waiting  by  the  sea,  bathed  in  sunset. 
What  are  these  wonderful  things  you  are 
whispering  to  their  souls?  You  promise  — 
ah,  what  things  you  promise,  strange  voices 
of  the  string ! 

i Oh,  sirens,  have  pity!  Their  hearts  are 
pure,  their  bodies  sweet  as  apples.  Oh,  be 
faithful,  betray  them  not,  beautiful  voices  of 
the  wondrous  world ! 

The  overture  had  succeeded.  Their  souls 
had  followed  it  over  the  footlights,  and,  float- 
ing in  the  limelight,  shone  there  awaiting 
the  fulfilment  of  the  promise. 


AT  THE   THEATRE  97 

The  play  was   "Pygmalion   and  Galatea," 
and  at  the  appearance  of  Galatea  they  knew 
that   the   overture    had  not   lied.     There,    in 
dazzling  white  flesh,  was  all  it  had  promised; 
and   when    she    called    "  Pyg-ma-lion !  "    how 
their  hearts  thumped  !  —  for  they  knew  it  was 
really  them  she  was  calling. 
"  Pyg-ma-lion  !     Pyg-ma-lion  !  " 
It   was   as    though    Cleopatra    called  them 
from  the  tomb. 

Their  hands  met.  They  could  hear  each 
other's  blood  singing.  And  was  not  the  play 
itself  an  allegory  of  their  coming  lives?  Did 
not  Galatea  symbolise  all  the  sleeping  beauty 
of  the  world  that  was  to  awaken,  warm  and 
fragrant,  at  the  kiss  of  their  youth?  And 
somewhere,  too,  shrouded  in  enchanted  quiet, 
such  a  white  white  woman  waited  for  their 
kiss.  In  a  vision  they  saw  life  like  the 
treasure  cave  of  the  Arabian  thief;  and  they 
said  to  their  beating  hearts  that  they  had  the 
secret  of  the  magic  word,  that  the  "open 
Sesame  "  was  youth. 

No  fall  of  the  curtain  could  hide  the  vision 

from  their  young  eyes.      It  transfigured  the 

faces  of  their  fellow-playgoers,  crowding  from 

the  pit ;  it  made  another  stage  of  the  embers 

7 


98  YOUNG   LIVES 

of  the  sunset,  a  distant  bridge  of  silver  far 
down  the  street.  Then  they  took  it  with 
them  to  the  tavern ;  and  to  write  of  the  sol- 
emn libations  of  that  night  would  be  to  laugh 
or  cry.  Only  youth  can  be  so  radiantly 
ridiculous. 

They  had  found  their  own  corner.  Turning 
down  the  gas,  the  fire  played  at  day  and  night 
with  their  faces.  Imagine  them  in  one  of  the 
flashes,  solemnly  raising  their  glasses,  hands 
clasped  across  the  table,  earnest  gleaming 
eyes  holding  each  other  above  it. 

"  Old  man,  some  day,  somewhere,  a  woman 
like  that ! " 

But  there  was  still  a  sequel.  At  home  at 
last  and  in  bed,  how  could  Damon  sleep !  It 
seemed  as  if  he  had  got  into  a  rosy  sunset 
cloud  in  mistake  for  his  bed.  The  candle  was 
out,  and  yet  the  room  was  full  of  rolling  light. 

It  was  no  use;  he  must  get  up.  So, 
striking  a  light,  he  was  presently  deep  in  the 
composition  of  a  fiery  sonnet.  It  was  evi- 
dently that  which  had  caused  all  the  phos- 
phorescence. But  a  sonnet  is  a  mere  pill-box; 
it  holds  nothing.  A  mere  cockle-shell, — and, 
oh,  the  raging  sea  it  could  not  hold !  Besides 
being  confessedly  an  art-form,  duly  licenced 


AT  THE  THEATRE  99 

to  lie,  it  was  apt  to  be  misunderstood.  It 
could  not  say  in  plain  words,  "  Meet  me  at 
the  pier  to-morrow  at  three  in  the  afternoon;  " 
it  could  make  no  assignation  nearer  than  the 
Isles  of  the  Blest,  "after  life's  fitful  fever." 
Therefore,  it  seemed  well  to  add  a  postscript 
to  that  effect  in  prose. 

But  then,  how  was  she  to  receive  it  ?  There 
was  nothing  to  be  hoped  from  the  post,  and 
Damon's  home  in  Sidon  was  three  miles  from 
the  ferry.  Likewise,  it  was  now  nearing  three 
in  the  morning.  Just  time  to  catch  the  half- 
past  three  boat,  run  up  to  the  theatre,  a  mile 
away,  and  meet  the  return  boat.  So  down, 
down  through  the  creaking  house,  carefully, 
as  though  he  were  a  Jason  picking  his  way 
among  the  coils  of  the  sleeping  dragon ;  and 
soon  he  was  shooting  through  the  phantom 
streets,  like  Mercury  on  a  message  through 
Hades. 

At  last  the  river  came  in  sight,  growing 
slate-colour  in  the  earliest  dawn.  He  could 
see  the  boat  nuzzling  up  against  the  pier, 
and  snoring  in  its  sleep.  He  said  to  himself 
that  this  was  Styx  and  the  fare  an  obolus. 
As  he  jumped  on  board,  with  hot  face  and 
hotter  heart,  Charon  clicked  his  signal  to  the 


ioo  YOUNG   LIVES 

engines;  the  boat  slowly  snuffled  itself  half 
awake,  and  shoved  out  into  the  sleepy  water. 

As  they  crossed,  the  light  grew,  and  the 
gas-lamps  of  Tyre  beaconed  with  fading  gleam. 
Overhead  began  a  restlessness  in  the  clouds,  as 
of  a  giant  drowsily  shuffling  off  some  of  his  bed- 
clothes ;  but  as  yet  he  slept,  and  only  the  silver 
bosom  of  his  spouse,  the  moon,  was  uncovered. 

When  they  landed,  the  streets  of  Tyre  were 
already  light,  but  empty,  as  though  they  had 
got  up  early  to  meet  some  one  who  had  not 
arrived.  Damon  sped  through  them  like  a 
sea-gull  that  has  the  harbour  to  itself,  and 
was  not  long  in  reaching  the  theatre.  How 
desolate  the  play-bills  looked  that  had  been 
so  companionable  but  three  or  four  hours 
before !  And  there  was  her  photograph ! 
Surely  it  was  an  omen. 

"Ah,  my  angel!  See,  I  am  bringing  you 
my  heart  in  a  song.  '  All  my  heart  in  this 
my  singing !  ' 

He  dropped  the  letter  into  the  box;  but,  as 
he  turned  away,  momentarily  glancing  up  the 
long  street,  he  caught  sight  of  an  approaching 
figure  that  could  hardly  be  mistaken.  Good 
Heavens !  it  was  Pythias,  and  he  too  was 
carrying  a  letter. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

CONTRIBUTIONS   TOWARDS   A   GENEALOGY 

THE  egregious  Miss  Bashkirtseff  did  not 
greatly  fascinate  Esther.  Her  egotism  was 
too  hard,  too  self-bounded,  even  for  egotism, 
and  there  was  generally  about  her  a  lack  of 
sympathy.  Her  passion  for  fame  had  some- 
thing provincial  in  its  eagerness,  and  her 
broadest  ideals  seemed  to  become  limited  by 
her  very  anxiety  to  compass  them.  Even  her 
love  of  art  seemed  a  form  of  snobbery.  In  all 
these  young  Mesuriers  there  was  implicit,  — 
partly  as  a  bye-product  of  the  sense  of  humour, 
and  partly  as  an  unconscious  mysticism, — a 
surprising  instinct  for  allowing  the  successes 
of  this  world  their  proper  value  and  no  more. 
Even  Esther,  who  was  perhaps  the  most 
worldly  of  them  all,  and  whose  ambitions 
were  largely  social,  as  became  a  bonny  girl 
whom  nature  had  marked  out  to  be  popular, 
and  on  whom,  some  day  when  Mike  was  a 


102  YOUNG   LIVES 

great  actor,  —  and  had  a  theatre  of  his  own ! 
—  would  devolve  the  cares  of  populous  "at 
home  "  days,  bright  after-the-performance  sup- 
pers, and  all  the  various  diplomacies  of  the 
popular  wife  of  fame,  —  even  Esther,  however 
brilliant  her  life  might  become,  would  never 
for  a  moment  imagine  that  such  success  was  a 
thing  worth  winning,  at  the  expense  of  the 
smallest  loss  to  such  human  realities  as  the 
affection  she  felt  for  Mike  and  Henry.  To 
love  some  one  well  and  faithfully,  to  be  one 
of  a  little  circle  vowed  to  eternal  fidelity  one 
to  the  other, — such  was  the  initial  success 
of  these  young  lives;  and  it  was  to  make  them 
all  their  days  safe  from  the  dangers  of  more 
meretricious  successes. 

All  the  same,  though  the  chief  performer  in 
Marie  Bashkirtseff's  "  Confessions  "  interested 
her  but  little,  the  stage  on  which  for  a  little 
while  she  had  scolded  and  whimpered  did 
interest  her  —  for  should  it  not  have  been  her 
stage  too,  and  Henry's  stage,  and  Dot's 
stage,  father's  and  mother's  stage  too?  You 
had  only  to  look  at  father  to  realise  that 
nature  had  really  meant  him  for  the  great 
stage;  here  in  Sidon,  what  was  he  but  a  god 
in  exile,  bending  great  powers  and  a  splendid 


A   GENEALOGY  103 

character  upon  ridiculously  unimportant  in- 
terests? Indeed,  was  not  his  destiny,  more 
or  less,  their  destiny  as  a  family?  Henry 
would  escape  from  it  through  literature,  and 
she  through  Mike.  But  what  of  Dot,  what 
of  Mat,  not  yet  to  speak  of  "the  children  "  ? 

All  she  envied  Marie  Bashkirtseff  was  her 
opportunity.  Great  Goddess  Opportunity ! 
So  much  had  come  to  Marie  in  the  cradle,  and 
came  daily  to  a  hundred  thousand  insignifi- 
cant aristocratic  babes,  to  approach  which  for 
the  Mesuriers,  even  ten  years  too  late,  meant 
convulsions  of  the  home,  and  to  attain  which 
in  any  satisfactory  degree  was  probably  im- 
possible. French,  for  example,  and  music ! 
Why,  if  so  disposed,  Marie  Bashkirtseff  might 
have  read  old  French  romances  at  ten,  and  to 
play  Chopin  at  an  earlier  age  was  not  surpris- 
ing in  the  opportunitied,  so-called  "aristo- 
cratic" infant.  Oh,  why  had  they  not  been 
born  like  the  other  Sidonians,  whose  natures 
and  ideals  had  been  mercifully  calculated  to 
the  meridian  of  Sidon!  Why  didn't  they 
think  the  Proudfoots  and  the  Wilkinsons 
and  the  Wagstaffs,  and  other  local  nobody- 
somebodies,  people  of  importance,  and  why 
did  they  think  the  mayor  a  ludicrous  up- 


104  YOUNG   LIVES 

start,  and  the  adjacent  J.P.  a  sententious 
old  idiot?  Far  better  to  have  rested  con- 
tent in  that  state  of  life  to  which  God  had 
called  them.  To  talk  French,  or  to  play 
Chopin!  What  did  it  matter?  In  one  sense 
nothing,  but  in  another  it  mattered  like 
other  convenient  facilities  of  life.  To  the 
immortal  soul  it  mattered  nothing,  but  to 
the  mortal  social  unit  it  made  life  the  easier, 
made  the  passage  of  ideas,  the  intercourse  of 
individualities,  the  readier,  and,  in  general, 
facilitated  spiritual  and  intellectual,  as  well 
as  social,  communication.  To  be  first-rate  in 
your  instincts,  in  all  your  fibres,  and  third- 
rate  in  your  opportunities,  — that  was  a  bitter 
indignity  of  circumstance. 

This  sub-conscious  sense  of  aristocracy —  it 
must  be  observed,  lest  it  should  have  been  in- 
sufficiently implied  —  was  almost  humorously 
dissociated  in  the  minds  of  the  young  Mesuriers 
from  any  recorded  family  distinctions.  In 
so  far  as  it  was  conscious,  it  was  defiantly 
independent  of  genealogy.  Had  the  Mesuriers 
possessed  a  coat-of-arms,  James  Mesurier 
would  probably  have  kept  it  locked  up  as  a 
frivolity  to  be  ashamed  of,  for  it  was  a  part 
of  his  Puritanism  that  such  earthly  distinc- 


A   GENEALOGY  105 

tions  were  foolishness  with  God;  but,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  between  Adam  and  the  im- 
mediate great-grandparents  of  the  young 
Mesuriers,  there  was  a  void  which  the  Herald's 
office  would  have  found  a  difficulty  in  filling. 
This  it  never  occurred  to  them  to  mind  in  the 
least. 

It  was  one  of  Henry's  deep-sunken  max- 
ims that  "a  distinguished  product  implied 
a  distinguished  process,"  and  that,  at  all 
events,  the  genealogical  process  was  only 
illustratively  important.  It  would  have  been 
interesting  to  know  how  they,  the  Mesuriers, 
came  to  be  what  they  were.  In  the  dark 
night  of  their  history  a  family  portrait  or 
two,  or  an  occasional  reference  in  history, 
would  have  been  an  entertaining  illumination 
—  but,  such  not  being  forthcoming,  they  were, 
documentally,  so  much  the  less  indebted  to 
their  progenitors.  Yet  if  they  had  only  been 
able  to  claim  some  ancestor  with  a  wig  and  a 
degree  for  the  humanities,  or  some  beautiful 
ancestress  with  a  romantic  reputation!  One's 
own  present  is  so  much  more  interesting  for 
developing,  or  even  repeating,  some  one  else's 
past.  And  yet  how  much  better  it  was  to  be 
as  they  were,  than  as  most  scions  of  aristo- 


io6  YOUNG   LIVES 

cratic  lineage,  whose  present  was  so  often 
nothing  and  their  past  everything.  How 
humiliating  to  be  so  pathetically  inadequate  an 
outcome  of  such  long  and  elaborate  prepara- 
tion, —  the  mouse  of  a  genealogical  mountain  ! 
Yes,  it  was  immeasurably  more  satisfactory 
to  one's  self-respect  to  be  Something  out  of 
Nothing,  than  Nothing  out  of  Everything. 
Here  so  little  had  made  so  much;  here  so 
much  had  made  —  hardly  even  a  lord.  It  was 
better  for  your  circumstances  to  be  inadequate 
for  you,  than  you  to  be  inadequate  for  your 
circumstances. 

Henry  had  amused  himself  one  day  in 
making  a  list  of  all  their  "ancestors"  to 
whom  any  sort  of  worldly  or  romantic  distinc- 
tion could  attach,  and  it  ran  somewhat  as 
follows :  — 

(i)  A  great-grandmother  on  the  father's  side, 
fabled  to  live  in  some  sort  of  a,  farm-house  chateau 
in  Guernsey,  who  once  a  year,  up  till  two  years 
ago,  when  she  died,  had  sent  them  a  hamper  of 
apples  from  Channel  Island  orchards.  Said  "  cha- 
teau "  believed  by  his  children  to  descend  to  James 
Mesurier,  but  the  latter  indifferent  to  the  matter, 
and  relatives  on  the  spot  probably  able  to  look 
after  it. 


A   GENEALOGY  107 

(2)  A  great-grandfather   on   the   mother's   side 
given  to  travel,  a  "  rolling-stone,"  fond  of  books  and 
talk,  and  rich  in  humanity.    Surviving  still  in  a  high- 
nosed  old  silhouette. 

(3)  A  grand-uncle  on  the  father's  side  who  was 
one  of  Napoleon's  guard  at  St.  Helena  ! 

(4)  A   grandfather   on   the   mother's  side,  who 
used  to  design  and  engrave  little  wooden  blocks  for 
patterns  on  calico-stuffs,  and  whose  little  box  of  del- 
icate instruments,  evidently  made  for   the  tracing 
of  lines  and  flowers,  was  one  of  the  few  family  heir- 
looms. 

(5)  A  grandmother  on  the  father's  side  of  whom 
nothing  was  known  beyond  the  beautiful  fact  that 
she  was  Irish. 

(6)  A  grandfather  on  the  father's  side  who  was  a 
sea-captain,  sailing  his  own  ship   (barque  "  the  Lu- 
cretia")  to  the  West  Indies,  and  who  died  of  yellow 
fever,  and  was  buried,  in  the  odour  of  romance,  on 
the  Isthmus  of  Panama. 

(7)  An  uncle  who  had  also  been  a  sea-captain, 
and  who,  in  rescuing  a  wrecked  crew  from  an  Aus- 
tralian reef,  was  himself  capsized,  and  after  a  long 
swim  finally  eaten  by  a  shark,  —  said  shark  being 
captured  next  day,  and  found  to  contain  his  head 
entire,  two  gold  rings  still  in  his  ears,  which  he  wore 
for  near-sightedness,  after  the  manner  of  common 
sailors,  and  one  of  which,  after  its  strange  vicissi- 


io8  YOUNG   LIVES 

tudes,  had  found  a  resting-place  in  the  secretaire  of 
his  brother,  James  Mesurier. 

Such  was  the  only  accessible  "ancestry" 
of  the  Mesuriers,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
the  last  state  of  the  family  was  socially  worse 
than  the  first.  James  Mesurier  was  unap- 
proachably its  present  summit,  its  Alpine 
peak;  and  he  was  made  to  suffer  for  it  no 
little  by  humble  and  impecunious  relatives. 
Still,  whatever  else  they  lacked,  Henry 
Mesurier  loved  to  insist  that  these  various 
connections  were  rich  in  character,  one  or  two 
of  them  inexhaustible  in  humour;  and  their 
rare  and  somewhat  timorous  visits  to  the 
castle  of  their  exalted  relative,  James  Mesurier, 
were  occasions  of  much  mirthful  embarrass- 
ment to  the  young  people.  Here  the  reader 
is  requested  to  excuse  a  brief  parenthetical 
chapter  by  way  of  illustration,  which,  if  he 
pleases,  he  may  skip  without  any  loss  of  con- 
tinuity in  the  narrative,  or  the  least  offence 
in  the  world  to  the  writer.  This  present 
chapter  will  be  found  continued  in  chapter 
sixteen. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MERELY  A   HUMBLE   INTERRUPTION  AND 
ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE   LAST 

SOME  peaceable  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Mesurier 
was  enjoying  a  little  doze  on  the  parlour  sofa, 
and  her  three  elder  daughters  were  snatching 
an  hour  or  two  from  housework  —  they  had 
already  left  school  —  for  a  little  private  read- 
ing, the  drowsy  house  would  suddenly  be 
awakened  by  one  loud  wooden  knock  at  the 
door. 

"  Now,  whoever  can  that  be !  "  the  three 
girls  would  impatiently  exclaim ;  and  presently 
the  maid  would  come  to  Miss  Esther  to  say 
that  there  was  an  old  man  at  the  door  asking 
for  Mrs.  Mesurier. 

"  What 's  his  name,  Jane?  " 

"  He  would  n't  give  it,  miss.  He  said  it 
would  be  all  right.  Mrs.  Mesurier  would 
know  him  well  enough." 

"Whoever  can   it  be?      What's   he   like, 
Jane?" 


i  io  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  He  looks  like  a  workman,  miss,  —  very 
old,  and  rather  dotey." 

"Who  can  it  be?  Go  and  ask  him  his 
name  again." 

Esther  would  then  arouse  her  mother ;  and 
the  maid  would  come  in  to  say  that  at  last  the 
old  man  had  been  persuaded  to  confide  his 
name  as  Clegg  —  Samuel  Clegg. 

"  Tell  the  missus  it 's  Samuel  Clegg,"  the  old 
man  had  said,  with  a  certain  amusing  conceit. 
"  She  '11  be  glad  enough  to  see  Samuel  Clegg." 

"  Why  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mesurier,  "  it 's  your 
father's  poor  old  uncle,  Mr.  Clegg.  Now, 
girls,  you  must  n't  run  away,  but  try  and  be 
nice  to  him.  He  's  a  simple,  good,  old  man." 

Mrs.  Mesurier  was  no  more  interested  in 
Mr.  Clegg  than  her  daughters ;  but  she  had 
a  great  fund  of  humanity,  and  an  inexhausti- 
ble capacity  for  suffering  bores  brilliantly. 

"  Why,  I  never !  "  she  would  say,  adapting 
her  idiom  to  make  the  old  man  feel  at  home, 
as  he  was  presently  ushered  in,  chuntering  and 
triumphant;  "you  don't  mean  to  say  it's 
Uncle  Clegg.  Well,  we  are  glad  to  see  you ! 
I  was  just  having  a  little  nap,  and  so  you  must 
excuse  my  keeping  you  waiting." 

"  Ay,  Mary.     It 's  right  nice  of  you  to  make 


me  so  welcome.  I  got  a  bit  misdoubtful  at  the 
door,  for  the  young  maid  seemed  somehow  a 
little  frightened  of  me ;  but  when  I  told  the 
name  it  was  all  right.  '  Samuel  Clegg,'  I  said. 
'  She  '11  be  glad  enough  to  see  Samuel  Clegg,' 
I  said." 

"  Glad  indeed,"  murmured  Mrs.  Mesurier,  "  I 
should  think  so.  Find  a  chair  for  your  uncle, 
Esther." 

"  Ay,  the  name  did  it,"  chuckled  the  old 
man,  who  as  a  matter  of  fact  was  anything 
but  a  humble  old  person,  and  to  whom  the 
bare  fact  of  existence,  and  the  name  of  Clegg, 
seemed  warrant  enough  for  thinking  quite  a 
lot  of  yourself. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  don't  remember  your  old 
uncle,"  said  the  old  man  to  Esther,  looking 
dimly  round,  and  rather  bewildered  by  the 
fine  young  ladies.  Actually,  he  was  only  a 
remote  courtesy  uncle,  having  married  their 
father's  mother's  sister. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Uncle  Clegg,"  said  Esther, 
a  true  daughter  of  her  mother;  "  but,  you  see, 
it 's  a  long  time  since  we  saw  you." 

"  And  this  is  Dorcas.  Come  and  kiss  your 
uncle,  Dorcas.  And  this  is  Matilda,"  said  Mrs. 
Mesurier. 


ii2  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  you  're  all 
growing  up  such  fine  young  ladies.  Deary 
me,  Mary,  but  they  must  make  you  feel  old." 

"We  were  just  going  to  have  some  tea,"  said 
Esther;  "  would  n't  you  like  a  cup,  uncle?  " 

"  I  daresay  your  uncle  would  rather  have  a 
glass  of  beer,"  said  Mrs.  Mesurier. 

"  Ay,  you  're  right  there,  Mary,"  answered 
the  old  man,  "  right  there.  A  glass  of  beer  is 
good  enough  for  Samuel  Clegg.  A  glass  of 
beer  and  some  bread  and  cheese,  as  the  old 
saying  is,  is  good  enough  for  a  king;  but 
bread  and  cheese  and  water  is  n't  fit  for  a 
beggar." 

All  laughed  obligingly;  and  the  old  man 
turned  to  a  bulging  pocket  which  had  evi- 
dently been  on  his  mind  from  his  entrance. 

"  I  Ve  got  a  little  present  here  from  Esther," 
he  said,  —  "Esther"  being  the  aunt  after  whom 
Mike's  Esther  had  been  named, — bringing  out 
a  little  newspaper  parcel.  "  But  I  must  tell  you 
from  the  beginning. 

"Well,  you  know,  Mary,"  he  continued,  "I 
was  feeling  rather  low  yesterday,  and  Esther 
said  to  me, '  Why  not  take  a  day  off  to-morrow, 
Samuel,  and  see  Mary,  it'll  shake  you  up  a 
bit,  and  I  '11  be  bound  she  's  right  glad  to  see 


A   HUMBLE   INTERRUPTION      113 

you?'  'Why,  lass!'  I  said,  'it's  the  very 
thing.  See  if  I  don't  go  in  the  morning.' 

"  So  this  morning,"  he  continued,  "  she  tidies 
me  up — you  know  her  way  —  and  sends  me  off. 
But  before  I  started,  she  said,  '  Here,  Samuel, 
you  must  take  this,  with  my  love,  to  Mary. 
I  've  kept  it  wrapped  up  in  this  drawer  for 
thirty  years,  and  only  the  other  day  our  Mary 
Elizabeth  said,  "  Mother,  you  might  give  me 
that  old  jug.  It  would  look  nice  in  our  little 
parlour."  "  But  no  !  "  I  says,  "  Mary  Elizabeth, 
if  any  one 's  to  have  that  jug,  it 's  your  Aunt 
Mary." ' " 

"  How  kind  of  her !  "  murmured  Mrs. 
Mesurier,  sympathetically. 

"  Yes,  those  were  her  words,  Mary,"  said 
the  old  man,  unfolding  the  newspaper  parcel, 
and  revealing  an  ugly  little  jug  of  metallically 
glistening  earthenware,  such  as  were  turned 
out  with  strange  pride  from  certain  Eng- 
lish potteries  about  seventy  years  ago.  It 
seemed  made  in  imitation  of  metal,  —  a  sort 
of  earthenware  pewter;  and  evidently  it  had 
been  a  great  aesthetic  treasure  in  the  eyes 
of  Mrs.  Clegg.  Mrs.  Mesurier  received  it 
accordingly. 

"  How  pretty,"  she  said,  "  and  how  kind  of 
8 


ii4  YOUNG   LIVES 

Aunt  Esther !  They  don't  make  such  things 
nowadays." 

"  No,  it 's  a  vallyble  relic,"  said  the  old 
man ;  "  but  you  're  worthy  of  it,  Mary.  I  'd 
rather  see  you  have  it  than  any  of  them.  My 
word,  but  I  'm  glad  I  've  got  it  here  safely. 
Esther  would  never  have  forgiven  me.  '  Now, 
Samuel,'  she  said,  as  I  left,  '  mind  you  get 
home  before  dark,  and  don't  sit  on  the  jug, 
whatever  you  do.' " 

Meanwhile  the  "  young  ladies "  were  in 
imminent  danger  of  convulsions;  and,  at  that 
moment,  further  to  enhance  the  situation,  an 
old  lady  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  occasion- 
ally dropped  in  for  a  gossip,  was  announced. 
She  was  a  prim  little  lady,  with  "  Cranford  " 
curls,  and  a  certain  old-world  charm  and  old- 
world  vanity  about  her,  and  very  deaf.  She 
too  was  a  "  character "  in  her  way,  but  so 
different  from  old  Mr.  Clegg  that  the  enter- 
tainment to  be  expected  from  their  conjunction 
was  irresistible  even  to  anticipate. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Clegg,  an  uncle  of  Mr.  Mesu- 
rier,"  said  poor  Mrs,  Mesurier,  by  way  of 
introduction. 

"  Howd'ye  do,  marm?"  said  Mr.  Clegg, 
without  rising. 


A   HUMBLE   INTERRUPTION      115 

Mrs.  Turtle  bowed  primly.  "  Are  you  sure, 
my  dear,  I  don't  interrupt?"  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Mesurier;  "shall  I  not  call  in  some  other 
day?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  "  said  Mrs.  Mesurier. 
"  Esther,  get  Mrs.  Turtle  a  little  whisky  and 
water." 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Turtle, 
"  only  the  least  little  drop  in  the  world, 
Esther  dear.  My  heart,  you  know,  my  dear. 
Even  so  short  a  walk  as  this  tires  me  out." 

Mrs.  Mesurier  responded  sympathetically; 
and  then,  by  way  of  making  himself  pleasant, 
Mr.  Clegg  suddenly  broke  in  with  such  an 
extraordinary  amenity  of  old-world  gallantry 
that  everybody's  hair  stood  on  end. 

"  How  old  do  you  be?"  he  said,  bowing  to 
the  new-comer. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Turtle,  put- 
ting her  hand  to  her  ear ;  "  but  I  'm  slightly 
deaf." 

"How  old  do  you  be?"  shouted  the  old 
man. 

Though  not  unnaturally  taken  aback  at 
such  an  unwonted  conception  of  conver- 
sational intercourse,  Mrs.  Turtle  recovered 
herself  with  considerable  humour,  and,  brid- 


ii6  YOUNG  LIVES 

ling,  with  an  old-world  shake  of  her  head, 
said,  — 

"What  would  you  take  me  for?" 

"  I  should  say  you  were  seventy,  if  you  're  a 
day,"  promptly  answered  the  old  man. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Turtle,  with 
some  pique ;  "  I  was  only  sixty  last  January." 

"  Well,  you  carry  your  age  badly,"  retorted 
the  old  man,  not  to  be  beaten. 

"What  does  he  say,  my  dear?"  said  the 
poor  old  lady  turning  to  Mrs.  Mesurier. 

"  You  carry  your  age  badly,"  shouted  the 
determined  old  man ;  "  she  should  see  our 
Esther,  shouldn't  she,  Mary?" 

The  silence  here  of  the  young  people  was 
positively  electric  with  suppressed  laughter. 
Two  of  them  escaped  to  explode  in  another 
room,  and  Esther  and  her  mother  were  left  to 
save  the  situation.  But  on  such  occasions  as 
these  Mrs.  Mesurier  grew  positively  great;  and 
the  manner  in  which  she  contrived  to  "  turn 
the  conversation,"  and  smooth  over  the  terri- 
ble hiatus,  was  a  feat  that  admits  of  no  worthy 
description. 

Presently  the  old  man  rose  to  go,  as  the 
clock  neared  five.  He  had  promised  to  be 
home  before  dark,  and  Esther  would  think 


A   HUMBLE   INTERRUPTION      117 

him  "  benighted  "  if  he  should  be  late.  He 
evidently  had  been  to  America  and  back  in 
that  short  afternoon. 

"  Well,  Mary,  good-bye,"  he  said ;  "  one 
never  knows  whether  we  shall  meet  again. 
I  "m  getting  an  old  man." 

"  Eh,  Uncle  Clegg,  you  're  worth  twenty 
dead  ones  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Mesurier,  reassur- 
ingly. 

"  What  a  strange  old  gentleman !  "  said 
Mrs.  Turtle,  somewhat  bewildered,  as  this 
family  apparition  left  the  room. 

"  Good-bye,  Uncle  Clegg,"  Esther  was  heard 
singing  in  the  hall.  "  Good-bye,  be  careful  of 
the  steps.  Good-bye.  Give  our  love  to 
Aunt  Esther." 

Then  the  door  would  bang,  and  the  whole 
house  breathe  a  gigantic  sigh  of  humorous 
relief. 

(This  was  the  kind  of  thing  girls  at  home 
had  to  put  up  with!) 

"  Well,  mother,  did  you  ever  see  such  a 
funny  old  person?  "  said  Esther,  on  her  return 
to  the  parlour. 

"You  mustn't  laugh  at  him,"  Mrs.  Mesurier 
would  say,  laughing  herself;  "  he  's  a  good  old 
man." 


ii8  YOUNG   LIVES 

"No  doubt  he's  good  enough,  mother 
dear;  but  he's  unmistakably  funny,"  Esther 
would  reply,  with  a  whimsical  thought  of  the 
family  tree.  Yes,  they  were  a  distinguished 
race ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  CONCLUDED 

No,  the  Mesuriers  had  absolutely  nothing  to 
hope  for  from  their  relations,  —  nothing  to 
look  back  upon,  less  to  look  forward  to. 
Most  families,  however  poor  and  even  bour- 
geois, had  some  memories  to  dignify  them  or 
some  one  possible  contingency  of  pecuniary 
inheritance.  At  the  very  least,  they  had  a 
ghost-story  in  the  family.  You  seldom  read 
the  biographies  of  writers  or  artists  without 
finding  references,  however  remote,  to  at  least 
one  person  of  some  distinction  or  substance. 
To  have  had  even  a  curate  for  an  ancestor,  or 
a  connection,  would  have  been  something, 
some  frail  link  with  gentility. 

Now  if,  instead  of  being  a  rough  old  sea- 
captain  of  a  trading  ship,  Grandfather  Mesurier 
had  only  been  a  charming  old  white-headed 
admiral  living  in  London,  and  glad,  now  and 
again,  to  welcome  his  little  country  grand- 


120  YOUNG  LIVES 

daughters  to  stay  with  him  !  He  would  prob- 
ably have  been  very  dull,  but  then  he  would 
have  looked  distinguished,  and  taken  one  for 
walks  in  the  Park,  or  bought  one  presents  in 
the  Burlington  arcade.  At  least  old  admirals 
always  seemed  to  serve  this  indulgent  purpose 
in  stories.  At  all  events,  he  would  have  been 
something,  some  possible  link  with  an  exist- 
ence of  more  generous  opportunities.  Dot 
and  Mat  would  then  at  least  have  seen  a  nice 
boy  or  two  occasionally,  and  in  time  got  mar- 
ried as  they  deserved  to  be,  and  thus  escape 
from  this  little  provincial  theatre  of  Sidon. 
Who  could  look  at  Dot  and  think  that  any- 
thing short  of  a  miracle  —  a  miracle  like 
Esther's  own  meeting  with  Mike  —  was  going 
to  find  her  a  worthy  mate  in  Sidon ;  and,  sup- 
pose the  miracle  happened  once  more  in  her 
case,  what  of  Mat  and  all  the  rest?  To  be 
the  wife  of  a  Sidonian  town-councillor,  at  the 
highest,  —  what  a  fate  ! 

Henry  and  she  had  often  discussed  this  in- 
adequate outlook  for  their  younger  sisters, 
quite  in  the  manner  of  those  whose  positions 
of  enlargement  were  practically  achieved.  The 
only  thing  to  be  done  was  for  Henry  to  make 
haste  to  win  a  name  as  a  writer,  and  Mike  to 


CHAPTER   XIV   CONCLUDED     121 

make  his  fortune  as  an  actor.  Then  another 
society  would  be  at  once  opened  to  them  all. 
Yes,  what  wonders  were  to  take  place  then, 
particularly  when  Mike  had  made  his  fortune  ! 
—  for  the  financial  prospects  of  the  young 
people  were  mainly  centred  in  him.  Litera- 
ture seldom  made  much  money — except  when 
it  was  n't  literature.  Henry  hoped  to  be  too 
good  a  writer  to  hope  to  make  money  as  well. 
But  that  would  be  a  mere  detail,  when  Mike 
was  a  flourishing  manager ;  for  when  that  had 
come  about,  had  not  Henry  promised  him  that 
he  would  not  be  too  proud  to  regard  him  as 
his  patron  to  the  extent  of  accepting  from  him 
an  allowance  of,  say,  a  thousand  a  year.  No, 
he  positively  would  n't  agree  to  more  than  a 
thousand ;  and  Mike  had  to  be  content  with 
his  promising  to  take  that. 

Meanwhile,  what  could  girls  at  home  do, 
but  watch  and  wait  and  make  home  as  pretty 
as  possible,  and,  by  the  aid  of  books  and 
pictures,  reflect  as  much  light  from  a  larger 
world  into  their  lives  as  might  be. 

On  Henry's  going  away,  the  three  girls  had 
promptly  bespoken  the  reversion  of  his  study 
as  a  little  sitting-room  for  themselves.  Here 
they  concentrated  their  books,  and  some  few 


122  YOUNG   LIVES 

pictures  that  appealed  to  tastes  in  revolt 
against  Atlantic  liners,  but  not  yet  developed 
to  the  appreciation  of  those  true  classics  of 
art  —  to  which  indeed  they  had  yet  to  be 
introduced.  Such  half-way  masters  as  Leigh- 
ton,  Alma-Tadema,  Sant,  and  Dicksee  were  as 
yet  to  them  something  of  what  Rossetti  and 
Burne-Jones,  and  certain  old  Italian  masters, 
were  soon  to  become.  In  books,  they  had 
already  learnt  from  Henry  a  truer,  or  at  all 
events  a  more  strenuous,  taste;  and  they  would 
grapple  manfully  with  Carlyle  and  Browning, 
and  presently  Meredith,  long  before  their 
lives  had  use  or  understanding  for  such 
tremendous  nourishment. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  all  three  sitting 
cosily  in  Henry's  study,  — as  they  still  faith- 
fully called  it,  —  Esther  was  reading  "Pride 
and  Prejudice "  aloud,  while  Dot  and  Mat 
busied  themselves  respectively  with  "  mac- 
rame"  "  work  and  a  tea-cosy  against  a  coming 
bazaar.  Esther's  tasks  in  the  house  were 
somewhat  illustrated  by  her  part  in  the  trio 
this  evening.  Her  energies  were  mainly 
devoted  to  "the  higher  flights"  of  housekeep- 
ing, to  the  aesthetic  activities  of  the  home,  — 
arranging  flowers,  dusting  vases  and  pictures, 


CHAPTER  XIV   CONCLUDED     123 

and  so  on,  —  and  the  lightness  of  these  employ- 
ments was,  it  is  to  be  admitted,  an  occasion- 
ally raised  grievance  among  the  sisters.  To 
Dot  and  Mat  fell  much  more  arduous  and 
manual  spheres  of  labour.  Yet  all  were  none 
the  less  grateful  for  the  decorative  innovations 
which  Esther,  acting  on  occasional  hints 
from  her  friend  Myrtilla  Williamson,  was 
able  to  make;  and  if  it  were  true  that  she 
hardly  took  her  fair  share  of  bed-making 
and  pastry-cooking,  it  was  equally  undeniable 
that  to  her  was  due  the  introduction  of  Liberty 
silk  curtains  and  cushions  in  two  or  three 
rooms.  She  too  —  alas,  for  the  mistakes  of 
young  taste !  —  had  also  introduced  painted 
tambourines,  and  swathed  the  lamps  in  won- 
derful turbans  of  puffed  tissue  paper.  Was 
she  to  receive  no  credit  for  these  services? 
Then  it  was  she  who  had  dared  to  do  battle 
with  her  mother's  somewhat  old-fashioned 
taste  in  dress;  and  whenever  the  Mesurier 
sisters  came  out  in  something  specially  pretty 
or  fashionable,  it  was  due  to  Esther. 

Well,  on  this  particular  evening,  she  was, 
as  we  have  said,  taking  her  share  in  the 
housework  by  reading  "Jane  Austen"  aloud 
to  Dot  and  Mat;  when  the  door  suddenly 


124  YOUNG  LIVES 

opened,  and  James  Mesurier  stood  there,  a 
little  aloof,  — for  it  was  seldom  he  entered 
this  room,  which  perhaps  had  for  him  a  cer- 
tain painful  association  of  his  son's  rebellion. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  picture  of  this  happy  little 
corner  of  his  children  —  a  world  evidently  so 
complete  in  itself,  and  daily  developing  more 
and  more  away  from  the  parent  world  in  the 
front  parlour — gave  him  a  certain  pang  of 
estrangement.  Perhaps  he  too  felt  as  he 
looked  on  them  that  same  dreary  sense  of  dis- 
integration which  had  overtaken  the  mother 
on  Henry's  departure  ;  and  perhaps  there  was 
something  of  that  in  his  voice,  as,  looking  at 
them  with  rather  a  sad  smile,  he  said,  — 

"  You  look  very  comfortable  here,  children. 
I  hope  that 's  a  profitable  book  you  are  read- 
ing, Esther." 

"Oh,  yes,  father.  It's  'Jane  Austen,'  you 
know." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  but  I 
want  a  few  words  with  Dorcas.  She  can  join 
you  again  soon." 

So  Dot,  wondering  what  was  in  store  for 
her,  rose  and  accompanied  her  father  to  the 
front  parlour,  where  Mrs.  Mesurier  was  peace- 
fully knitting  in  the  lamplight. 


CHAPTER   XIV   CONCLUDED      125 

"Dorcas,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when  the  door 
was  closed,  "your  mother  and  I  have  had  a 
serious  talk  this  evening  on  the  subject  of 
your  joining  the  church.  You  are  now  nearly 
sixteen,  and  of  an  age  to  think  for  yourself 
in  such  matters ;  and  we  think  it  is  time  that 
you  made  some  profession  of  your  faith  as  a 
Christian  before  the  world." 

The  Church  James  Mesurier  referred  to 
was  that  branch  of  the  English  Nonconform- 
ists known  as  Baptists;  and  the  profession  of 
faith  was  the  curious  rite  of  baptism  by  com- 
plete immersion,  the  importance  claimed  for 
which  by  this  sect  is,  perhaps,  from  a  Chris- 
tian point  of  view,  made  the  less  dispropor- 
tionate by  another  condition  attaching  to  it, 
—  the  condition  that  not  till  years  of  indi- 
vidual judgment  have  been  reached  is  one 
eligible  for  the  sacred  rite.  With  that  ration- 
alism which  religious  sects  are  so  skilful  in 
applying  to  some  unimportant  point  of  ritual, 
and  so  careful  not  to  apply  to  vital  questions 
of  dogma,  the  Baptists  reasonably  argue  that 
to  baptise  an  unthinking  infant,  and,  by  an 
external  rite  which  has  no  significance  except 
as  the  symbol  of  an  internal  decision,  declare 
him  a  Christian,  is  nothing  more  than  an 


126  YOUNG   LIVES 

idolatrous  mummery.  Wait  till  the  child  is 
of  age  to  choose  for  him  or  herself,  to  under- 
stand the  significance  of  the  Christian  revela- 
tion and  the  nature  of  the  profession  it  is 
called  upon  to  make ;  then  if,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  it  chooses  aright,  let  him  or  her  be 
baptised.  And  for  the  manner  of  that  bap- 
tism, if  symbols  are  to  be  made  use  of  by  the 
Christian  church,  — and  it  is  held  wise  among 
the  Baptists  to  make  use  of  few,  and  those 
the  most  central,  —  should  they  not  be  designed 
as  nearly  after  the  fashion  set  forth  in  the 
Bible  itself  as  is  possible  ?  The  "  Ordinance  " 
of  the  Lord's  Supper  —  as  it  is  called  amongst 
them — follows  the  procedure  of  the  Last 
Supper  as  recorded  in  the  Gospels;  should 
not,  therefore,  the  rite  of  baptism  be  in  its 
details  similarly  faithful  to  authority?  Now 
in  Scripture,  as  is  well  known,  baptisms  were 
complete  immersions,  symbolic  alike  of  the 
washing  away  of  sin,  and  also  of  the  dying  to 
this  world  and  the  resurrection  to  the  Life 
eternal  in  Christ  Jesus. 

So  much  theology  was  bred  in  the  bone  of 
all  the  young  Mesuriers;  and  the  youngest  of 
them  could  as  readily  have  capitulated  these 
articles  of  belief  as  their  father,  who  once 


CHAPTER   XIV   CONCLUDED     127 

more  briefly  summarised  them  to-night  for 
the  benefit  of  his  daughter.  He  ended  with 
something  of  a  personal  appeal.  It  had  been 
one  of  the  griefs  of  his  life  that  Henry  and 
Esther  had  both  refused  to  join  their  father's 
church,  though  Esther  always  dutifully  at- 
tended it  every  Sunday  morning;  and  it  was 
thinking  of  them,  though  without  naming 
them,  that  he  said,  — 

"I  met  Mr.  Trotter  yesterday,"  —  Mr. 
Trotter  was  the  local  Baptist  minister,  and 
Dot  remarked  to  herself  that  her  father  was 
able  to  pronounce  his  name  without  the 
smallest  suspicion  that  such  a  name,  as  be- 
longing to  a  minister  of  divine  mysteries, 
was  rather  ludicrous,  though  indeed  Baptist 
ministers  seemed  always  to  have  names  like 
that !  —  "and  he  asked  me  when  some  of  my 
young  ladies  were  going  to  join  the  church. 
I  confess  the  question  made  me  feel  a  little 
ashamed ;  for,  you  know,  my  dear,  out  of  our 
large  family  not  one  of  you  has  yet  come  for- 
ward as  a  Christian." 

"No,  father,"  said  Dot,  at  last. 

"  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  are  not  going  to  dis- 
appoint me  in  this  matter." 

"  No  indeed,  father,"  said  Dot,  whose  nature 


128  YOUNG   LIVES 

was  pliable  and  sympathetic,  as  well  as  fun- 
damentally religious;  "but  I'm  afraid  I 
haven't  thought  quite  as  much  about  it  as 
I  should  like  to,  and,  if  you  don't  mind,  I 
should  like  to  have  a  few  days  to  think  it 
out." 

"  Of  course,  my  dear.  That  is  a  very  right 
feeling;  for  the  step  is  a  solemn  one,  and 
should  not  be  taken  without  reverent  thought. 
You  cannot  do  better  than  to  talk  it  over  with 
Mr.  Trotter.  If  you  have  any  difficulties, 
you  can  tell  him;  and  I  'm  sure  he  would  be 
delighted  to  help  you.  Isn't  it  so,  mother? 
Well,  dear,"  he  continued,  "you  can  run 
away  now ;  but  bear  in  mind  what  I  have  said, 
and  I  shall  hope  to  hear  that  you  have  made 
the  right  choice  before  long.  Kiss  me, 
dear." 

And  so,  with  something  of  a  lump  in  her 
throat,  Dot  returned  to  the  interrupted  "Jane 
Austen." 

"  Whatever  did  father  want  ?  "  asked  the 
two  girls,  looking  up  as  she  entered  the  room. 

"What  do  you  think?"  said  Dot.  "He 
wants  me  to  be  baptised!" 


CHAPTER    XVII 

DOT'S   DECISION 

Now,  in  thus  appealing  to  Dot,  her  father 
had  appealed  to  just  the  one  out  of  all  his 
children  who  was  least  likely  to  disappoint 
him.  To  Dot  and  Henry  had  unmistakably 
been  transmitted  the  largest  share  of  their 
father's  spirituality.  Esther  was  not  actively 
religious,  any  more  than  she  was  actively 
poetic.  Hers  was  one  of  those  composite, 
admirably  balanced  natures  which  include 
most  qualities  and  faculties,  but  no  one  in 
excess  of  another.  Such  make  those  engag- 
ing good  women  of  the  world,  who  are  able 
to  understand  and  sympathise  with  the  most 
diverse  interests  and  temperaments;  as  it  is 
the  characteristic  of  a  good  critic  to  under- 
stand all  those  various  products  of  art,  which 
it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  create. 
Thus  Esther  could  have  delighted  a  saint 
with  her  sympathetic  comprehension,  as  she 
9 


130  YOUNG   LIVES 

could  have  healed  the  wounds  of  a  sinner  by 
her  comprehensive  sympathy;  but  it  was  cer- 
tain she  would  never  be,  in  sufficient  excess, 
spiritually  wrought  or  sensually  rebellious  to 
be  one  or  the  other.  She  was  beautifully, 
buoyantly  normal,  with  a  happy,  expansive, 
enjoying  nature,  glad  in  the  sunlight,  brave 
in  the  shadow,  optimistically  looking  forward 
to  blithe  years  of  life  and  love  with  Mike  and 
her  friends,  and  not  feeling  the  necessity  of 
being  anxious  about  her  soul,  or  any  other 
world  but  this.  She  was  not  shallow;  but 
she  merely  realised  life  more  through  her 
intelligence  than  through  her  feelings.  To 
have  become  a  Baptist  would  have  offended 
her  intelligence,  without  bringing  any  satis- 
faction to  spiritual  instincts  not,  in  any 
event,  clamorous. 

As  for  Henry,  it  was  not  only  activity  of 
intelligence,  but  activity  of  spirituality,  that 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  embrace  any 
such  narrow  creed  as  that  proposed  to  him ; 
and,  for  the  present,  that  spiritual  activity 
found  ample  scope  for  itself  in  poetry. 

Dot's,  however,  was  an  intermediate  case. 
With  an  intelligence  active  too,  she  united  a 
spirituality  torturingly  intense,  but  for  which 


DOT'S   DECISION  131 

she  had  no  such  natural  creative  outlet  as 
Henry.  With  her  loss  of  the  old  creed,  —  in 
discarding  which  these  three  sisters  had  fol- 
lowed the  lead  of  their  brother  with  a  curious 
instinctiveness,  almost,  it  would  seem,  inde- 
pendent of  reasoning, — her  spirituality  had 
been  left  somewhat  bleakly  houseless,  and 
she  had  often  longed  for  some  compromise 
by  which  she  could  reconcile  her  intelligence 
to  the  acceptance  of  some  established  home 
of  faith,  whose  kindly  enclosing  walls  should 
be  more  genially  habitable  to  the  soul  than 
the  cold,  star-lit  spaces  which  Henry  declared 
to  be  sufficient  temple. 

Perhaps  Esther's  commiseration  of  her 
sisters'  narrow  opportunities  was,  so  far  as  it 
related  to  Dot,  a  little  unnecessary,  for  indeed 
Dot's  ambitions  were  not  social.  By  nature 
shy  and  meditative,  and  with  her  religious 
bias,  had  she  been  born  into  a  Catholic  family, 
she  might  not  improbably  have  found  the 
world  well  lost  in  a  sisterhood.  The  Puritan 
conscience  had  an  uncomfortable  preponder- 
ance in  the  deep  places  of  her  nature,  and, 
far  down  in  her  soul,  like  her  father,  she 
would  ask  herself  if  pleasure  could  be  the 
end  of  life  —  was  there  not  something  serious 


132  YOUNG   LIVES 

each  of  us  could  and  ought  to  do,  to  justify 
his  place  in  the  world?  Were  we  not  all 
under  some  mysterious  solemn  obligation  to 
do  something,  however  little,  in  return  for 
life? 

Mat,  on  the  other  hand,  had  no  such  scruples. 
She  was  more  like  Esther  in  nature,  with  a 
touch  of  cynicism  curling  her  dainty  lip, 
arising,  perhaps,  from  an  early  divination  that 
she  was  to  lack  Esther's  opportunities.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  she  was  the  pessimist  — 
the  quite  cheerful  pessimist  —  of  the  family, 
that  she  was  by  far  the  cleverest  and  most 
industrious  at  the  housework.  If  it  was  her 
fate  to  be  Cinderella,  she  might  as  well  make 
the  best  of  it,  with  a  cynical  endurance  and 
good-humour,  and  be  Cinderella  with  a  good 
grace.  Probably  the  only  glass  slipper  in  the 
family  had  already  fallen  to  Esther.  Never 
mind,  though  her  good  looks  might  fade  with 
being  a  good  girl  at  home,  year  by  year,  what 
did  it  matter,  after  all?  Nothing  mattered 
in  the  end.  And  thus,  out  of  a  great  indiffer- 
ence, Mat  developed  a  great  unselfishness; 
and  if  you  could  name  one  special  angel  in 
the  house  of  the  Mesuriers,  she  was  unmis- 
takably Mat. 


DOT'S   DECISION  133 

In  addition  to  her  religious  promptings, 
Dot  had  lately  developed  a  great  sympathy 
for  her  father.  Standing  a  little  aside  from 
the  conflict  between  him  and  Henry,  she  was 
able  to  divine  something  of  the  feelings  of 
both;  and  she  had  now  and  again  caught  a 
look  of  loneliness  on  her  father's  face  that 
made  her  ready  to  do  almost  anything  to 
please  him. 

Of  course  the  question  was  one  for  general 
consultation.  She  knew  what  Henry  would 
say.  It  did  n't  much  matter  anyhow,  he  would 
say,  but  it  was  a  pity.  How  was  intellectual 
freedom  to  be  won,  if  those  who  had  seen  the 
light  should  thus  deliberately  forego  it,  time 
after  time,  from  such  merely  sentimental 
reasons?  And  when  she  saw  Henry,  that 
was  just  what  he  did  say. 

"But,"  she  said,  "it  would  make  father  so 
happy. " 

"  Yes,  I  know, "  he  answered ;  "  and  it  would 
be  very  beautiful  of  you.  Besides,  of  course, 
in  one  way  it 's  only  a  matter  of  symbolism; 
but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  it's  symbolism 
hardened  into  dogmatism  that  has  done  all 
the  mischief.  Do  it,  dear,  if  you  like;  I 
hardly  know  what  to  say.  As  you  say,  it  will 


134  YOUNG   LIVES 

make  father  happy,  and  I  shall  quite  under- 
stand." 

Dot  was  one  of  those  natures  that  like  to 
seek,  and  are  liable  to  take,  advice;  so,  after, 
seeing  Henry,  she  thought  she  would  see 
what  Mr.  Trotter  had  to  say;  for,  in  spite  of 
his  unfortunate  name,  Mr.  Trotter  was  a 
gentle,  cultivated  mind,  and  was  indeed  some- 
what incongruously,  perhaps  in  a  mild  way 
Jesuitically,  circumstanced  as  a  Baptist  minis- 
ter. Henry  and  he  were  great  friends  on 
literary  matters ;  and  Dot  and  he  had  had 
many  talks,  greatly  helpful  to  her,  on  spiritual 
things.  In  fact,  Chrysostom  Trotter  was  one 
of  those  numerous  half-way  men  between  the 
old  beliefs  and  their  new  modifications,  which 
the  continuous  advance  of  scientific  discovery 
and  philosophical  speculation  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  obstinate  survival  of  Christian- 
ity on  the  other,  necessitate  —  if  men  of  spirit- 
ual intuitions  who  are  not  poets  and  artists 
are  to  earn  their  living.  There  was  nothing 
you  could  say  to  Chrysostom  Trotter,  pro- 
vided you  said  it  reverently,  that  would  startle 
him.  He  knew  all  that  long  ago  and  far 
more.  For,  though  obliged  to  trade  in  this 
backwater  of  belief,  he  was  in  many  respects 


DOT'S   DECISION  135 

a  very  modern  mind.  You  were  hardly  likely 
to  know  your  Herbert  Spencer  as  intimately 
as  he,  and  all  the  most  exquisite  literature 
of  doubt  was  upon  his  shelves.  Though 
you  might  declare  him  superficially  disin- 
genuous, you  could  not,  unless  you  were 
some  commonplace  atheist  or  materialist, 
gainsay  the  honest  logic  of  his  position. 

"  You  believe  that  the  world,  that  life,  is  a 
spiritual  mystery?"  he  would  say. 

"Yes."   ' 

"  You  do  not  for  a  moment  think  that  any 
materialistic  science  has  remotely  approached 
an  adequate  explanation  of  its  meaning  ? " 

"Certainly  not." 

"You  believe  too  that,  however  it  comes 
about,  and  whatever  it  means,  there  is  an 
eternal  struggle  in  man  between  what,  for 
sake  of  argument,  we  will  call  the  higher  and 
lower  natures  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  this  spiritual  mystery,  this 
struggle,  are  hinted  at  in  various  media  of 
human  expression,  in  an  ever-changing  variety 
of  human  symbols.  Art  chiefly  concerns  itself 
with  the  sexual  mystery,  with  the  wonderful 
love  of  man  and  woman,  in  its  explanation  of 


136  YOUNG   LIVES 

which  alone  science  is  so  pitifully  inadequate. 
Literature  more  fully  concerns  itself  with  the 
mystery  of  man's  indestructibly  instinctive 
relation  to  what  we  call  the  unseen,  — that  is, 
the  Whole,  the  Cosmos,  God,  or  whatever 
you  please  to  call  it.  But  more  than  litera- 
ture, religion  has  for  centuries  concerned 
itself  with  these  considerations,  has  con- 
sciously and  industriously  sought  to  make 
itself  the  science  of  what  we  call  the  soul. 
It  has  thrown  its  observations,  just  as  poetry 
and  art  have  thrown  their  observations,  into 
symbolic  forms,  of  which  Christianity  is  in- 
comparably the  most  important.  You  don't 
reject  the  revelation  of  human  love  because 
Hero  and  Leander  are  probably  creations  of 
the  poet's  fancy.  Will  you  reject  the  revela- 
tion of  divine  love,  because  it  chances,  for  its 
greater  efficiency  in  winning  human  hearts,  to 
have  found  expression  in  a  similar  human 
symbolism?  Personally,  I  hold  that  Christ 
actually  lived,  and  was  literally  the  Son  of 
God;  but,  were  the  human  literalness  of  his 
divine  story  discredited,  the  eternal  verities 
of  human  degeneration,  and  a  mysterious 
regeneration,  would  be  no  whit  disproved. 
Externally,  Christianity  may  be  a  symbol ; 


DOT'S   DECISION  137 

essentially,  it  is  a  science  of  spiritual  fact,  as 
really  as  geology  is  a  science  of  material  fact. 

"And  as  for  its  miraculous,  supernatural, 
side, — are  the  laws  of  nature  so  easy  to 
understand  that  we  should  find  such  a  diffi- 
culty in  accepting  a  few  divergencies  from 
them  ?  He  who  can  make  laws  for  so  vast  a 
universe  may  surely  be  capable  of  inventing 
a  few  comparatively  trivial  exceptions." 

Not  perhaps  in  so  many  words,  but  in  some 
such  spirit,  would  Chrysostom  Trotter  argue; 
and  it  was  in  some  such  fashion  that  he 
talked  in  his  charmingly  sympathetic  way 
with  Dorcas  Mesurier,  one  afternoon,  as  she 
had  tea  with  him  in  a  study  breathing  on 
every  hand  the  man  of  letters,  rather  than  the 
minister  of  a  somewhat  antiquated  sect. 

"My  dear  Dorcas,"  he  said,  "you  know  me 
well  enough  —  you  know  me  perhaps  better 
than  your  father  knows  me  —  know  me  well 
enough  to  believe  that  I  wouldn't  urge  you  to 
do  this  thing  if  I  didn't  think  it  was  right  for 
you  —  as  well  as  for  your  father  and  me.  But 
I  know  it  is  right,  and  for  this  reason.  You 
are  a  deeply  religious  nature,  but  you  need 
some  outward  symbol  to  hold  on  to, — you 
need,  so  to  say,  the  magnetising  association 


138  YOUNG   LIVES 

of  a  religious  organisation.  Henry  can  get 
along  very  well,  as  many  poets  have,  with  his 
birds  and  his  sunsets  and  so  forth;  but  you 
need  something  more  authoritative.  It  hap- 
pens that  the  church  I  represent,  the  church 
of  your  father,  is  nearest  to  you.  You  might, 
with  all  the  goodwill  in  the  world,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  embrace  some  other  modifi- 
cation of  the  Christian  faith ;  but  here  is  a 
church,  so  to  say,  ready  for  you,  familiar  by 
long  association,  endeared  to  your  father. 
You  believe  in  God,  you  believe  in  the 
spiritual  meaning  of  life,  you  believe  that  we 
poor  human  beings  need  something  to  keep 
our  eyes  fixed  upon  that  spiritual  meaning 
—  well,  dear  Dorcas,"  he  ended,  abruptly, 
"what  do  you  think?" 

"I '11  do  it,"  said  Dot. 

"Good  girl,"  said  the  minister;  "some- 
times it  is  a  form  of  righteousness  to  waive 
our  doubts  for  those  who  are  at  once  so  dear 
and  good  as  your  father.  And  don't  for  a 
moment  think  that  it  will  leave  you  just 
where  you  are.  These  outward  acts  are  great 
energisers  of  the  soul.  Dear  Dorcas,  I  wel- 
come you  into  one  of  God's  many  churches." 

So  it  was  that   Dot    came  to  be  baptised; 


DOT'S   DECISION  139 

and,  to  witness  the  ceremony,  all  the  Mesuriers 
assembled  at  the  chapel  that  Sunday  evening, 
—  even  Henry,  who  could  hardly  remember 
when  he  used  to  sit  in  this  still-familiar  pew, 
and  scribble  love-verses  in  the  back  of  his 
hymn-book  during  the  sermon. 

To  the  mere  mocker,  the  rite  of  baptism 
by  immersion  might  well  seem  a  somewhat 
grotesque  antic  of  sectarianism ;  but  to  any 
one  who  must  needs  find  sympathy  for  any 
observance  into  which,  in  whatsoever  for- 
gotten and  superseded  time,  has  passed  the 
prayerful  enthusiasm  of  man,  the  rite  could 
hardly  fail  of  a  moving  solemnity.  As  Chrys- 
ostom  Trotter  ordered  it,  it  was  certainly 
made  to  yield  its  fullest  measure  of  impres- 
siveness.  To  begin  with,  the  chapel  was 
quite  a  comely  edifice  inside  and  out;  and 
its  ministerial  end,  with  its  singers'  gallery 
backed  by  great  organ  pipes,  and  fronted  by 
a  handsome  pulpit,  which  Mr.  Trotter  had 
dared  to  garnish  with  chrysanthemums  on 
each  side  of  his  Bible,  had  a  modest,  sacerdotal 
effect.  Beneath  the  pulpit  on  ordinary  occa- 
sions stood  the  Communion-table;  but  on 
evenings  when  the  rite  of  baptism  was  pre- 
pared, this  table,  and  a  boarding  on  which  it 


140  YOUNG   LIVES 

stood,  were  removed,  revealing  a  tiled  bap- 
tistry,—  that  is,  a  tiled  tank,  about  eight  feet 
long,  and  six  wide,  with  steps  on  each  side 
descending  into  about  four  feet  of  water. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  service,  the  minis- 
ter would  leave  his  pulpit,  and,  during  the 
singing  of  a  hymn,  would  presently  emerge 
from  his  vestry  in  a  long  waterproof  gar- 
ment. As  the  hymn  ended,  some  "  sister  "  or 
"brother"  that  night  to  be  admitted  into  the 
church,  would  timidly  join  him  at  the  bap- 
tistry side,  and  together  they  would  go  down 
into  the  water. 

Holding  the  hands  of  the  new  communicant, 
the  minister,  in  a  solemn  voice,  would  say, 
"Sister,"  or  "Brother,  on  confession  of  your 
faith  in  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ, 
I  baptise  thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and 
of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

Then  the  organ  would  strike  up  a  trium- 
phant peal,  and,  to  the  accompaniment  of  its 
music  and  the  mellow  plashing  of  the  water, 
the  sister  or  brother  would  be  plunged  beneath 
the  symbolic  wave. 

Great  was  the  excitement,  needless  to  say, 
in  the  Mesurier  pew,  as  little  Dot  at  last  came 
forth  from  the  vestry,  and,  stealing  down  into 


DOT'S   DECISION  141 

the  water,  took  the  minister's  out-stretched 
hands. 

"There  she  is!  There's  Dot!"  passed 
round  the  pew,  and  the  hardest  young  heart, 
whoever  it  belonged  to,  stopped  beating,  to 
hear  the  minister's  words.  They  seemed  to 
come  with  a  special  personal  tenderness,  — 

"  Sister,"  on  confession  of  your  faith  in  our 
Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  I  baptise  thee 
in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and 
of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

Once  more  the  organ  triumphant,  and  the 
mellow  splashing  of  the  water. 

Dear  little  Dot,  she  had  done  it ! 

"Did  you  see  father's  face?"  Esther 
whispered  to  Henry. 

Yes ;  perhaps  none  of  them  would  ever  do 
such  a  beautiful  thing  as  Dot  had  done  that 
night.  At  least  there  was  one  of  James 
Mesurier's  children  who  had  not  disappointed 
him. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

MIKE   AND   HIS   MILLION   POUNDS 

THE  most  exquisite  compliment  a  man  has 
ever  paid  to  him  is  worded  something  like 
this:  "Well,  dear,  you  certainly  know  how 
to  make  love;  "  and  this  compliment  is  always 
the  reward,  not  of  passion  however  sustained, 
or  sentiment  however  refined,  but  of  humour 
whimsically  fantasticating  and  balancing  both. 
It  is  the  gentle  laugh,  not  violating,  but  just 
humanising,  that  very  solemn  kiss;  the  quip 
that  just  saves  passion  from  toppling  over  the 
brink  into  bathos,  that  mark  the  skilful  lover. 
No  lover  will  long  be  successful  unless  he  is 
a  humourist  too,  and  is  able  to  keep  the  heart 
of  love  amused.  A  lover  should  always  be 
something  of  an  actor  as  well ;  not,  of  course, 
for  the  purpose  of  feigning  what  he  does  not 
feel,  but  so  that  he  may  the  better  dramatise 
his  sincerity ! 

Mike  had  therefore  many  advantages  over 
those  merely  pretty  fellows  whose  rivalry  he 


MIKE   AND   HIS   MILLION        143 

had  once  been  modest  enough  to  fear.  He 
was  a  master  of  all  the  child's  play  of  love; 
and  to  attempt  to  describe  the  fancies  which 
he  found  to  vary  the  game  of  love,  would  be 
to  run  the  risk  of  exposing  the  limitations 
of  the  literary  medium.  No  words  can  pull 
those  whimsical  faces,  or  put  on  those  heart- 
breaking pathetic  expressions,  with  which  he 
loved  to  meet  Esther  after  some  short  absence. 
Sometimes  he  would  come  into  the  room,  a 
little  forlorn  sparrow  of  a  creature,  signifying, 
by  a  dejection  in  which  his  very  clothes  took 
part,  that  he  was  out  in  the  east  wind  of 
circumstance  and  no  one  in  the  world  cared 
a  shabby  feather  for  him.  He  would  stand 
shivering  in  a  corner,  and  look  timorously 
from  side  to  side,  till  at  last  he  would  pre- 
tend she  had  warmed  him  with  her  kisses, 
and  generally  made  him  welcome  to  the 
world. 

Sometimes  he  would  come  in  with  his 
collar  dismally  turned  up,  and  an  old  battered 
hat  upon  his  head,  and  pretend  that  he  hadn't 
had  a  meal  —  of  kisses  —  for  a  whole  week ; 
and  occasionally  he  would  come  blowing  out 
his  cheeks  like  a  king's  trumpeter,  to  an- 
nounce that  Mike  Laflin  might  be  at  any 


144  YOUNG   LIVES 

moment  expected.  But  for  the  most  part  these 
impersonations  were  in  a  minor  key,  as  Mike 
had  soon  discovered  that  the  more  pathetic 
he  was,  the  more  he  was  hugged  and  called  a 
"  weenty,"  which  was  one  of  his  own  sad  little 
names  for  himself. 

One  of  his  "  long-run "  fairy-tales,  as  he 
would  call  them,  was  that  each  morning  as  he 
went  to  business,  he  really  started  out  in 
search  of  a  million  pounds,  which  was  some- 
where awaiting  him,  and  which  he  might 
break  his  shins  over  at  any  moment.  It 
might  be  here,  it  might  be  there,  it  might 
come  at  any  hour  of  the  day.  The  next  post 
might  bring  it.  It  might  be  in  yonder  Parcel 
Delivery  van, — nothing  more  probable.  Or 
at  any  moment  it  might  fall  from  heaven  in  a 
parachute,  or  be  at  that  second  passing  through 
the  dock-gates,  wearily  home  from  the  Islands 
of  Sugar  and  Spice.  You  never  could  tell. 

"Well,  Mike,"  said  Esther,  one  evening, 
as  he  came  in,  hopping  in  a  pitifully  wounded 
way,  and  explaining  that  he  had  been  one  of 
the  three  ravens  sitting  on  a  bough  which 
the  cruel  huntsman  had  shot  through  the 
wing,  etc.,  "have  you  found  your  million 
pounds  to-day?" 


MIKE   AND   HIS   MILLION        145 

"No,  not  my  million  pounds,"  said  M:ke. 
"  I  'm  told  I  shall  find  them  to-morrow." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"The  Wecnty." 

"You  silly  old  thing!  Give  me  a  kiss. 
Are  you  a  dear?  Tell  me,  aren't  you  a 
dear?" 

"  No-p  !  I  'm  only  a  poor  little  houseless, 
roofless,  vvindowless,  chimney-less,  Esther-less, 
brainless,  out-in-the-wind-and-the-snow-and-the- 
rain,  Mike !  " 

"  You  're  the  biggest  dear  in  the  world  !  " 

"  No,  I  'm  not.     I  'm  the  littlest !  " 

"  Suppose  you  found  your  million  pounds, 
Mike?" 

"  Suppose !  Did  n't  I  tell  you  I  'm  sure  of 
it  to-morrow?" 

"  Well,  when  you  find  it  to-morrow,  what 
will  you  do  with  it?" 

"I'll  buy  the  moon." 

"  The  moon?  " 

"  Yes  ;  as  a  present  for  Henry." 

"  Would  n't  it  be  rather  dear?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  Twenty  thousand  would  buy 
it  any  time  this  last  hundred  years.  But  the 
worst  of  it  is,  no  one  wants  it  but  the  poets, 
and  they  cannot  afford  it.  Yet  if  only  a  poet 


146  YOUNG   LIVES 

could  get  hold  of  it,  why  what  a  literary  prop- 
erty it  would  be  !  " 

"You  silly  old  thing!" 

"  No !  but  you  don't  seem  to  realise  that 
I  'm  quite  serious.  Think  of  the  money  there 
would  be  for  any  poet  who  had  acquired  the  ex- 
clusive literary  rights  in  the  moon !  Within  a 
week  I  'd  have  it  placarded  all  over,  '  Literary 
trespassers  will  be  prosecuted  ! '  And  then 
I  Ve  no  doubt  Henry  would  lend  me  the  Man 
in  the  Moon  for  my  Christmas  pantomimes." 

"  After  all,  it 's  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Esther. 

"Of  course  it's  not,"  said  Mike;  "but  be 
careful  not  to  mention  it  to  Henry  just  yet. 
I  shouldn't  like  to  disappoint  him  —  for,  of 
course,  before  we  took  any  final  steps  in  the 
purchase,  we  'd  have  to  make  sure  that  it 
was  n't,  as  some  people  think,  made  of  green 
cheese." 

"  But  never  mind  about  the  moon.  Tell  us 
how  you  got  on  with  The  Sothern." 

The  Sothern  was  an  amateur  dramatic  club 
in  Tyre  which  took  itself  very  seriously,  and 
to  which  Mike  was  seeking  admission,  as  a 
first  step  towards  London  management.  He 
had  that  day  passed  an  examination  before 
three  of  the  official  members,  solemn  and 


MIKE   AND   HIS   MILLION        147 

important  as  though  they  had  been  the  Hon- 
ourable Directors  of  Drury  Lane,  and  had 
been  admitted  to  membership  in  the  club, 
with  the  promise  of  a  small  part  in  their  forth- 
coming performance. 

"  Oh,  that 's  good  !  "  said  Esther.  "  What 
were  they  like  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  were  all  right,  —  rather  humor- 
ous. They  gave  me  '  Eugene  Aram'  to  read  — 
Me  reading  '  Eugene  Aram  ' !  —  and  a  scene  out 
of  '  London  Assurance/  which  was,  of  course, 
better.  Naturally,  not  one  of  the  men  was 
the  remotest  bit  like  himself.  One  was  a 
queer  kind  of  Irving,  another  a  sad  sort  of 
Arthur  Roberts,  and  the  other  was  —  shall  we 
say,  a  Tyrian  Wyndham." 

Actors,  like  poets,  have  provincial  parodists 
of  their  styles  in  even  greater  numbers,  so 
adoringly  imitative  is  humanity.  Some  day, 
Mike  would  have  his  imitators,  —  boys  who 
pulled  faces  like  his,  and  prided  themselves  on 
having  the  Laflin  wrinkles ;  just  as  it  was  once 
the  fashion  for  girls  to  look  like  Burne-Jones 
pictures,  or  young  poets  to  imitate  Mr.  Swin- 
burne. 

"  Yes,  I  Ve  got  my  first  part.  I  Ve  got  it 
in  my  pocket,"  said  Mike. 


148  YOUNG  LIVES 

"  Oh,  really  !  That 's  splendid  !  "  exclaimed 
Esther,  with  delight. 

"  Wait  till  you  see  it,"  said  Mike,  bringing 
out  a  French's  acting  edition  of  some  forgotten 
comedy.  "  Yes ;  guess  how  many  words  I  Ve 
got  to  say !  Just  exactly  eleven.  And  such 
words !  " 

"Well,  never  mind,  dear.     It's  a  beginning." 

"Certainly,  it's  a  beginning, — the  very  be- 
ginning of  a  beginning." 

"  Come,  let  me  see  it,  Mike.  What  are  you 
supposed  to  be?  " 

At  last  Mike  was  persuaded  to  confess  the 
humble  little  role  for  which  the  eminent  actors 
who  had  consented  to  be  his  colleagues  had 
cast  him.  He  was  to  be  the  comic  boy  of  a 
pastry-cook's  man,  and  his  distinguished  part 
in  the  action  of  the  piece  was  to  come  in  at 
a  certain  moment  with  the  pie  that  had  been 
ordered,  and,  as  he  delivered  it,  he  was  to 
remark,  "That's  a  pie  as  is  a  pie,  is  that  there 
pie !  " 

"  Oh,  Mike,  what  a  shame ! "  exclaimed 
Esther.  "  How  absurd  !  Why,  you  're  a  bet- 
ter actor  with  your  little  finger  than  any  one 
of  them  with  their  whole  body." 

"  Ah,  but  they  don't  know  that  yet,  you  see." 


MIKE  AND   HIS   MILLION        149 

"Anyone  could  see  it  if  they  looked  at  your 
face  half-a-minute." 

"  I  wanted  to  play  the  part  of  Snodgrass ; 
but  they  could  n't  think  of  giving  me  that,  of 
course.  So,  do  you  know  what  I  pretended, 
to  comfort  myself?  I  pretended  I  was  Edward 
Kean  waiting  in  the  passages  at  Drury  Lane, 
with  all  the  other  fine  fellows  looking  down  at 
the  shabby  little  gloomy  man  from  the  pro- 
vinces. That  was  conceit  for  you,  wasn't  it?" 

The  pathos  of  this  was,  of  course,  irresistible 
to  Esther,  and  Mike  was  thereupon  hugged 
and  kissed  as  he  expected. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  "you'll  see  if  I 
don't  make  something  of  the  poor  little  part 
after  all." 

And,  thereupon,  he  described  what  he  laugh- 
ingly called  his  "  conception,"  and  how  he  pro- 
posed to  dress  and  make  up,  so  vividly  that  it 
was  evident  that  the  pastry-cook's  boy  was 
already  to  him  a  personality  whose  actions 
and  interests  were  by  no  means  limited  to  his 
brief  appearance  on  the  stage,  but  who,  though 
accidentally  he  had  but  fc\v  words  to  speak 
before  the  audience,  was  a  very  voluble  and 
vital  little  person  in  scenes  where  the  audience 
did  not  follow  him. 


ISO  YOUNG   LIVES 

"Yes,  you  see  I'll  do  something  with  it. 
The  best  of  a  small  part,"  said  Mike,  speaking 
as  one  of  experience,  "  is  that  it  gives  you 
plenty  of  opportunity  for  making  the  audience 
wish  there  was  more  of  it." 

"  From  that  point  of  view,  you  certainly 
could  n't  have  a  finer  part,"  laughed  Esther. 

Then  for  a  moment  Mike  skipped  out  of  the 
room,  and  presently  knocked,  and,  putting  in 
a  funny  face,  entered  carrying  a  cushion  with 
alacrity. 

"  That 's  a  pie  as  is  a  pic,  is  that  there  pie  !  " 
he  fooled,  throwing  the  cushion  into  Esther's 
lap,  where  presently  his  little  red  head  found 
its  way  too. 

"  How  can  you  love  such  a  silly  little  crea- 
ture?" he  said,  looking  up  into  Esther's  blue 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Esther;  "but 
I  do,"  and,  bending  down,  she  kissed  the  wist- 
ful boy's  face.  Was  it  because  Esther  was  in 
a  way  his  mother,  as  well  as  his  sweetheart, 
that  she  seemed  to  do  all  the  kissing? 

Thus  was  Mike's  first  part  rehearsed  and 
rewarded. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ON   CERTAIN    ADVANTAGES    OF   A   BACKWATER 

THOUGH  from  a  maritime  point  of  view,  Tyre 
was  perhaps  the  chief  centre  of  conjunction 
for  all  the  main  streams  of  the  world,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  literature  and  any  other  art,  it 
was  an  admitted  backwater.  Take  what  art 
you  pleased,  Tyre  was  a  dunce.  Even  to 
music,  the  most  persuasive  of  the  arts,  it  was 
deaf.  Surely,  of  all  cities,  it  had  not  been 
built  to  music.  It  possessed,  indeed,  one  pri- 
vate-spirited town-councillor,  who  insisted  on 
presenting  it  with  nude  sculptures  and  myste- 
rious paintings  which  it  furiously  declined. 
If  Tyre  was  to  be  artistically  great,  it  must 
certainly  be  with  a  greatness  reluctantly  thrust 
upon  it. 

Still  Henry  and  Ned  had  sense  enough 
to  be  glad  that  they  had  been  born  there. 
It  was  from  no  mere  recognition  of  an  inex- 
pensively effective  background ;  perhaps  they 


152  YOUNG  LIVES 

hardly  knew  why  they  were  glad  till  later 
on.  But,  meanwhile,  they  instinctively  laid 
hold  of  the  advantages  of  their  limitations. 
Had  they  been  London-born  and  Oxford-bred, 
they  would  have  been  much  more  fashionable 
in  their  tastes  ;  but  their  very  isolation,  happily, 
saved  them  from  the  passing  superstitions  of 
fashion ;  and  they  were  thus  able  to  enjoy  the 
antiquities  of  beauty  with  the  same  freshness 
of  appetite  as  though  they  had  been  novelties. 
If  Henry  was  to  meet  Ned  some  evening  with 
the  announcement  that  he  had  a  wonderful 
new  book  to  share  with  him,  it  was  just  as 
likely  to  be  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "  Astrophel 
and  Stella,"  as  any  more  recent  publication  — 
though,  indeed,  they  contrived  to  keep  in  touch 
with  the  literary  developments  of  the  day  with 
a  remarkable  instinct,  and  perhaps  a  juster 
estimate  of  their  character  and  value  than 
those  who  were  taking  part  in  them ;  for  it  is 
seldom  that  one  can  be  in  the  movement  and 
at  the  centre  as  well. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  little  that  in- 
terested them,  or  which  at  all  events  did  n't  dis- 
appoint and  somewhat  bewilder.  The  novel 
was  groaning  under  the  thraldom  of  realism ; 
poetry,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  was  given 


ADVANTAGES   OF   BACKWATER     153 

up  to  bric-a-brac  and  metrical  ingenuity.  To 
young  men  for  whom  French  romanticism  was 
still  alive,  who  were  still  content  to  see  the 
world  through  the  spiritual  eyes  of  Shelley  and 
Keats,  and  who  had  not  yet  learned  to  belittle 
Carlyle,  there  seemed  a  strange  lack  of  gener- 
osity and,  indeed,  vitality  in  the  literary  ideals 
of  the  hour.  The  novel  particularly  seemed 
barren  and  unprofitable  to  them,  more  and  more 
an  instrument  of  science  than  a  branch  of  litera- 
ture. Laughter  had  deserted  it,  as  clearly  as 
romance  or  pathos,  and  more  and  more  it  was 
becoming  the  vehicle  of  cynical  biology  on  the 
one  hand,  and  Unitarian  theology  on  the  other. 
Besides,  strangest  of  all,  men  were  praised  for 
lacking  those  very  qualities  which  to  these 
boys  had  seemed  essential  to  literature.  The 
excellences  praised  were  the  excellences  of 
science,  not  literature.  In  fact,  there  seemed 
to  be  but  one  excellence,  namely,  accuracy  of 
observation ;  and  to  write  a  novel  with  any  eye 
to  beauty  of  language  was  to  err,  as  the  writer 
of  a  scientific  treatise  would  err  who  en- 
deavoured to  add  charm  and  grace  to  the 
sober  record  of  his  investigations.  Dull  soci- 
ological analysts  reigned  in  the  once  laughing 
domain  of  Cervantes,  of  Fielding  and  Thack- 


154  YOUNG   LIVES 

eray,  of  Dumas  and  Dickens,  of  Hugo  and 
Gautier  and  George  Sand. 

Were  they  born  too  late  ?  Were  they  anach- 
ronisms from  the  forgotten  age  of  romanti- 
cism, or  were  they  just  born  in  time  to  assist  at 
the  birth  of  another  romantic,  idealistic  age? 
Would  dreams  and  love  and  beautiful  writing 
ever  come  into  fashion  again?  Would  the  poet 
be  again  a  creature  of  passion,  and  the  novelist 
once  more  make  you  laugh  and  cry ;  and  would 
there  be  essayists  any  more,  whose  pages  you 
would  mark  and  whose  phrases  you  would  roll 
over  and  over  again  on  your  tongue,  with  de- 
light at  some  mysterious  magic  in  the  words? 

History  may  be  held  to  have  answered  these 
questions  since  then,  much  in  favour  of  those 
young  men,  or  at  all  events  is  engaged  in 
answering  them ;  but,  meanwhile,  what  a 
miraculous  refreshment  in  a  dry  and  thirsty 
land  was  the  new  book  Henry  Mesurier  had 
just  discovered,  and  had  eagerly  brought  to 
share  with  Ned  in  their  tavern  corner  one  sum- 
mer evening  in  1885. 

Ned  was  late ;  but  when  Henry  had  sipped  a 
little  at  his  port,  and  turned  to  the  new-born 
exquisite  pages,  he  hardly  noticed  how  the 
minutes  were  going  by  as  he  read.  Presently 


ADVANTAGES   OF   BACKWATER     155 

he  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  first  volume,  the 
only  one  he  had  with  him,  and  he  raised  his 
eyes  from  the  closing  page  with  that  exquisite 
exaltation,  that  beatific  satisfaction  of  mind  and 
spirit,  —  even  almost  one  might  say  of  body,  — 
which  for  the  lover  of  literature  nothing  in  the 
world  like  a  fine  passage  can  bring. 

He  turned  again  to  the  closing  sentences: 
"  Yes ;  what  was  wanting  was  the  heart  that 
would  make  it  impossible  to  witness  all  this ; 
and  the  future  would  be  with  tJie  forces  that 
would  beget  a  heart  like  that.  His  favourite 
philosophy  had  said,  Trust  the  eye.  Strive  to 
be  right  always,  regarding  the  concrete  experi- 
ence. Never  falsify  your  impressions.  Audits 
sanction  had  been  at  least  effective  here,  in  say- 
ing :  It  is  what  I  may  not  see  !  Surely,  evil 
was  a  real  tiling ;  and  the  wise  man  wanting 
in  the  sense  of  it,  where  not  to  have  been,  by 
instinctive  election,  on  the  right  side  was  to 
have  failed  in  life." 

The  passage  referred  to  the  Roman  gladia- 
torial shows,  and  to  the  philosophic  detach- 
ment by  which  Marcus  Aurelius  was  able  to 
see  and  yet  not  to  see  them ;  and  the  whole 
book  was  the  spiritual  story  of  a  young  Roman's 
soul,  a  priestlikc  artistic  temperament,  born  in 


1 56  YOUNG  LIVES 

the  haunted  twilight  between  the  setting  sun  of 
pagan  religion  and  philosophy  and  the  dawn 
of  the  Christian  idea.  The  theme  presented 
many  fascinating  analogies  to  the  present  time ; 
and  in  the  hero's  "  sensations  and  ideas"  Henry 
found  many  correspondences  with  his  own  nat- 
ure. In  him,  too,  was  united  that  same  joy  in 
the  sensuous  form,  that  same  adoration  of  the 
spiritual  mystery,  the  temperaments  in  one  of 
artist  and  priest.  He,  too,  in  a  dim  fashion 
indeed,  and  under  conditions  of  culture  less 
favourable,  had  speculated  and  experimented 
in  a  similar  manner  upon  the  literary  art  over 
which  as  yet  he  had  acquired  —  how  crushingly 
this  exquisite  book  taught  him  —  such  patheti- 
cally uncertain  mastery.  That  impassioned 
comradeship  in  books  beautiful,  was  it  not 
to-day  Ned's  and  his,  as  all  those  years  before 
it  had  been  that  of  Marius  and  Flavian  ? 

And  where  in  the  world  was  Ned  ?  How  he 
would  kindle  at  a  passage  like  this :  "  To  keep 
the  eye  clear  by  a  sort  of  exquisite  personal 
alacrity  and  cleanliness,  extending  even  to  his 
dwelling-place ;  to  discriminate,  ever  more  and 
more  exactly,  select  form  and  colour  in  tilings 
from  what  was  less  select ;  to  meditate  much  on 
beautiful  visible  objects,  on  objects,  more  espe- 


ADVANTAGES   OF   BACKWATER     157 

dally,  connected  with  the  period  of  youth,  —  on 
children  at  play  in  the  morning,  the  trees  in 
early  spring,  on  young  animals,  on  the  fashions 
and  amusements  of  young  men  ;  to  keep  ever  by 
himt  if  it  were  but  a  single  choice  flower,  a 
graceful  animal  or  sea-shell,  as  a  token  and 
representation  of  the  whole  kingdom  of  suck 
things;  to  avoid  jealously,  in  his  way  through 
the  world,  everything  repugnant  to  sight ;  and, 
should  any  circumstance  tempt  him  to  a  general 
converse  in  the  range  of  such  objects,  to  disen- 
tangle Jiimsclf  from  that  circumstance  at  any 
cost  of  place,  money,  or  opportunity  :  such  were, 
in  brief  outline,  the  duties  recognised,  the  rights 
demanded,  in  this  new  formula  of  life," 

And  again,  what  gleaming  single  phrases, 
whole  counsels  of  existence  in  a  dozen  words ! 
He  must  copy  out  some  of  them  for  Esther. 
This,  for  example :  "  Not  pleasure,  but  f  illness, 
completeness  of  life  generally"  or  this:  "  To  be 
able  to  make  use  of  the  flower  when  the  fruit, 
perhaps,  was  useless  or  poisonous,"  or  again 
this  :  "  To  be  absolutely  virgin  towards  a  direct 
and  concrete  experience,"  —  and  there  were  a 
hundred  more. 

Then  for  the  young  craftsman  what  an  in- 
sight into,  what  a  compassionate,  childish  re- 


158  YOUNG   LIVES 

membrance  of  the  moods  and  the  little  foolish 
accidents  of  creation :  "  His  dilettantism,  his 
assiduous  preoccupation  with  what  might  seem 
but  the  details  of  mere  form  or  manner,  was, 
after  all,  bent  upon  the  function  of  bringing  to 
the  surface,  sincerely  and  in  their  integrity,  cer- 
tain strong  personal  intuitions,  certain  visions 
or  apprehensions  of  things  as  being,  with  im- 
portant results,  in  this  way  rather  than  that — 
apprehensions  which  the  artistic  or  literary  ex- 
pression was  called  upon  to  follow,  with  the 
exactness  of  wax  or  clay,  clothing  the  model 
within  it.  Flavian,  too,  with  his  fine,  clear 
mastery  of  the  practically  effective,  had  early 
laid  hold  of  the  principle,  as  axiomatic  in  liter- 
ature :  That '  to  know  when  one's  self  is  inter- 
ested, is  the  first  condition  of  interesting  other 
people' "  And  once  more :  "  As  it  oftcnest 
happens  also,  with  natures  of  genuinely  poetic 
quality,  those  piecemeal  beginnings  came  sud- 
denly to  harmonious  completeness  among  the 
fortunate  incidents,  the  physical  heat  and  light, 
of  one  singularly  happy  day." 

And,  over  all,  what  a  beauty !  a  beauty  at 
once  so  sensuous  and  so  spiritual  —  the  beauty 
of  flowering  laurel,  the  beauty  of  austerity  a- 
flower.  Here  the  very  senses  prayed.  Surely 


ADVANTAGES   OF   BACKWATER     159 

this  was  the  most  beautiful  prose  book  ever 
written  !  It  had  been  compared,  he  saw,  with 
Gautier's  "Mademoiselle  de  Maupin;"  but 
was  not  the  beauty  of  that  masterpiece,  in 
comparison  with  the  beauty  of  this,  as  the 
beauty  of  a  leopard-skin  to  the  beauty  of  a 
statue  of  Minerva,  withdrawn  in  a  grove  of 
ilex. 

Still  Ned  delayed,  and,  meanwhile,  the  third 
glass  of  port  had  come  and  gone,  and  at  length, 
reluctantly,  Henry  emerged  from  his  tavern- 
cloister  upon  the  warm  brilliancy  of  the  streets. 
All  around  him  the  lights  beaconed,  and  the 
women  called  with  bright  eyes.  But  to-night 
there  was  no  temptation  for  him  in  these 
things.  They  but  recalled  another  exquisite 
quotation  from  his  new-found  treasure,  which 
he  stopped  under  a  lamp  to  fix  in  his  memory : 
"And,  as  the  f "res h,  rich  evening  came  on,  there 
was  heard  all  over  Rome,  far  above  a  whisper, 
the  whole  town  seeming  hushed  to  catch  it  dis- 
tinctly, the  living,  reckless  call  to  'play'  from 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  foolishness  to  those  in 
ivJiom  their  life  was  still  green  —  Donee  virenti 
canities  abest !  Donee  virenti  canities  abest! 
Marius  could  hardly  doubt  how  Cornelius  would 
have  taken  the  call.  And  as  for  himself,  slight 


1 60  YOUNG   LIVES 

as  was  the  burden  of  positive  moral  obligation 
with  which  lie  had  entered  Rome,  it  was  to  no 
wasteful  and  vagrant  affections,  such  as  these, 
that  his  Epicureanism  had  committed  him" 
But  what  could  have  happened  to  Ned? 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE   MAN   IN   POSSESSION 

ONE  morning,  two  or  three  months  after  Henry 
had  left  home,  old  Mr.  Lingard  came  to  him  as 
he  sat  bent,  drearily  industrious,  over  some 
accounts,  and  said  that  he  wished  him  in  half- 
an-hour's  time  to  go  with  him  to  a  new  client; 
and  presently  the  two  set  out  together,  Henry 
wondering  what  it  was  to  be,  and  welcoming 
anything  that  even  exchanged  for  a  while  one 
prison-house  for  another. 

"  I  am  taking  you,"  said  the  old  man,  as  they 
walked  along  together,  "  to  a  firm  of  carriers 
and  carters  whose  affairs  have  just  come  into 
our  hands ;  there  is  a  dispute  arisen  between 
the  partners.  We  represent  certain  interests, 
as  I  shall  presently  explain  to  you,  and  you 
arc  to  be  our  representative,  —  our  man  in 
possession,"  and  the  old  gentleman  laughed 
uncannily. 

"  You  never  expected  to  be  a  man  in  pos- 
session, did  you?  " 


1 62  YOUNG   LIVES 

Henry  thrilled  with  a  sense  of  awful  intimacy, 
thus  walking  and  even  jesting  with  his  august 
employer. 

"  It  may  very  likely  be  a  long  business,"  the 
old  man  continued ;  "  and  I  fear  may  be  a 
little  dull  for  you.  For  you  must  be  on  the 
spot  all  day  long.  Your  lunch  will  be  served 
to  you  from  the  manager's  house ;  I  will  see 
to  that.  Actually,  there  will  be  very  little  for 
you  to  do,  beyond  looking  over  the  day-book 
and  receipts  for  the  day.  The  main  thing  is 
for  you  to  be  there,  —  so  to  say,  the  moral 
effect  of  your  presence,"  —  and  the  old  gentle- 
man laughed  again.  Then,  with  an  amused  sym- 
pathy that  seemed  almost  exquisite  to  Henry, 
he  chuckled  out,  looking  at  him,  from  one 
corner  of  his  eye,  like  a  roguish  skeleton  — 

"  You  '11  be  able  to  write  as  much  poetry  as 
you  like.  I  see  you  Ve  got  a  book  with  you. 
Well,  it  will  keep  you  awake.  I  don't  mind 
that,  —  or  even  the  poetry,  —  so  long  as  you 
don't  forget  the  day-book." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Henry,  almost  hys- 
terically. 

"  I  suppose,"  the  old  man  continued,  pres- 
ently, and  in  all  he  said  there  was  a  tone 
of  affectionate  banter  that  quite  won  Henry's 


THE   MAN   IN   POSSESSION       163 

heart,  "  that  you  're  still  as  set  on  literature  as 
ever.  Well,  well,  far  be  it  from  me  to  dis- 
courage you ;  but,  my  dear  boy,  you  '11  find 
out  that  we  can't  live  on  dreams."  (Henry 
thought,  but  did  n't  dare  to  say,  that  it  was 
dreams  alone  that  made  it  possible  to  live  at 
all.)  "  I  suppose  you  think  I  'm  a  dried-up 
old  fellow  enough.  Well,  well,  I  Ve  had  my 
dreams  too.  Yes,  I've  had  my  dreams,"  — 
Henry  thought  of  what  he  had  discovered  that 
day  in  the  old  man's  diary,  —  "  and  I  've  written 
my  verses  to  my  lady's  eyebrow  in  my  time 
too.  Ah,  my  boy,  we  are  all  young  and  foolish 
once  in  our  lives  !  "  and  it  was  evident  what  a 
narrow  and  desperate  escape  from  being  a  poet 
the  old  man  had  had. 

They  had  some  distance  to  walk,  for  the 
stables  to  which  they  were  bound  were  situated 
in  an  old  and  rather  disreputable  part  of  the 
town.  "  It 's  not  a  nice  quarter,"  said  Mr. 
Lingard,  "  not  particularly  salubrious  or  re- 
fined," as  bad  smells  and  dirty  women  began 
to  cross  their  path ;  "  but  they  are  nice  people 
you  've  got  to  deal  with,  and  the  place  itself 
is  clean  and  nice  enough,  when  you  once  get 
inside." 

"  Here  we  are,"  he  said,  presently,  as  they 


1 64  YOUNG   LIVES 

stopped  short  of  an  old-fashioned  house,  set  in 
a  high  red-brick  wall  which  seemed  to  enclose 
quite  a  considerable  area  of  the  district.  In 
the  wall,  a  yard  or  two  from  the  house,  was  set 
a  low  door,  with  a  brass  bell-pull  at  the  side 
which  answered  to  Mr.  Lingard's  summons  with 
a  far-off  clang.  Soon  was  heard  the  sound  of 
hob-nailed  boots,  evidently  over  a  paved  yard, 
and  a  big  carter  admitted  them  to  the  en- 
closure, which  immediately  impressed  them 
with  its  sense  of  country  stable-yard  cleanli- 
ness, and  its  country  smell  of  horses  and  prov- 
ender. The  stones  of  the  courtyard  seemed 
to  have  been  individually  washed  and  scoured, 
and  a  small  space  in  front  of  a  door  evidently 
leading  to  the  house  was  chalked  over  in  the 
prim,  old-fashioned  way. 

"  Is  Mr.  Flower  about?  "  asked  Mr.  Lingard  ; 
and,  as  he  asked  the  question,  a  handsome, 
broad-shouldered  man  of  about  forty-five  came 
down  the  yard.  It  was  a  massive  country  face, 
a  little  heavy,  a  little  slow,  but  exceptionally 
gentle  and  refined. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Lingard." 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Flower.  This  is  our 
representative,  Mr.  Mesurier,  of  whom  I  have 
already  spoken  to  you.  I  'm  sure  you  will  get 


THE   MAN   IN   POSSESSION       165 

on  well  together ;  and  I  'm  sure  he  will  give  you 
as  little  trouble  as  possible." 

Henry  and  Mr.  Flower  shook  hands,  and,  as 
men  sometimes  do,  took  to  each  other  at  once 
in  the  grasp  of  each  other's  hands,  and  the 
glances  which  accompanied  it. 

Then  the  three  walked  further  up  the  yard, 
to  the  little  office  where  Henry  was  to  pass  the 
next  few  weeks;  and  as  Mr.  Lingard  turned 
over  books,  and  explained  to  Henry  what  he 
was  expected  to  do,  the  sound  of  horses  kick- 
ing their  stalls,  and  rattling  chains  in  their 
mangers,  came  to  him  from  near  at  hand  with 
a  delightful  echo  of  the  country. 

When  Mr.  Lingard  had  gone,  Mr.  Flower 
asked  Henry  if  he  'd  care  to  look  at  the  horses. 
Henry  sympathetically  consented,  though  his 
knowledge  of  horseflesh  hardly  equalled  his 
knowledge  of  accounts.  But  with  the  healthy 
animal,  in  whatever  form,  one  always  feels 
more  or  less  at  home,  as  one  feels  at  home 
with  the  green  earth,  or  that  simple  creature 
the  sea. 

Mr.  Flower  led  the  way  to  a  long  stable 
where  some  fifty  horses  protruded  brown  and 
dappled  haunches  on  either  hand.  It  was  all 
wonderfully  clean  and  sweet,  and  the  cobbled 


1 66  YOUNG  LIVES 

pavement,  the  straw  beds,  the  hay  tumbling 
in  sweet-scented  bunches  into  the  stalls  from 
the  loft  overhead,  made  you  forget  that  around 
this  bucolic  enclosure  swarmed  and  rotted 
the  foulest  slums  of  the  city,  garrets  where 
coiners  plied  their  amateur  mints,  and  cellars 
where  murderers  lay  hidden  in  the  dark. 

"It's  like  a  breath  of  the  country,"  said 
Henry,  unconsciously  striking  the  right  note. 

"You're  right  there,"  said  Mr.  Flower,  at 
the  same  moment  heartily  slapping  the  shin- 
ing side  of  a  big  chestnut  mare,  after  the 
approved  manner  of  men  who  love  horses. 
To  thus  belabour  a  horse  on  its  hinder-parts 
would  seem  to  be  equivalent  among  the  horse- 
breeding  fraternity  to  chucking  a  buxom 
milkmaid  under  the  chin. 

"You  're  right  there,"  he  said;  "and  here  's 
a  good  Derbyshire  lass  for  you,"  once  more 
administering  a  sounding  caress  upon  his 
sleek  favourite. 

The  horse  turned  its  head  and  whinnied 
softly  at  the  attention ;  and  it  was  evident  it 
loved  the  very  sound  of  Mr.  Flower's  voice. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  to  Derbyshire  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Flower,  presently,  and  Henry  immedi- 
ately scented  an  idealism  in  the  question. 


THE   MAN   IN   POSSESSION      167 

"No,"  he  answered;  "but  I  believe  it's 
a  beautiful  county." 

"  Beautiful 's  no  name  for  it,"  said  Mr. 
Flower;  "  it 's  just  a  garden." 

And  as  Henry  caught  a  glance  of  his  eyes, 
he  realised  that  Derbyshire  was  Mr.  Flower's 
poetry,  —  the  poetry  of  a  countryman  im- 
prisoned in  the  town,  —  and  that  when  he 
died  he  just  hoped  to  go  to  Derbyshire. 

"Ah,  there  are  places  there, — places  like 
Miller's  Dale,  for  instance,  — I  'd  rather  take 
my  hat  off  to  than  any  bishop,"  —  and  Henry 
eagerly  scented  something  of  a  thinker  ;  "for 
God  made  them  for  sure,  and  bishops — well  —  " 
and  Mr.  Flower  wisely  left  the  rest  unsaid. 

Thus  they  made  the  tour  of  the  stables; 
and  though  Henry's  remarks  on  the  subject 
of  slapped  horse-flesh  had  been  anything  but 
those  of  an  expert,  it  was  tacitly  agreed  that 
Mr.  Flower  and  he  had  taken  to  each  other. 
Nor,  as  he  presently  found,  were  Mr.  Flower's 
interests  limited  to  horses. 

"You  're  a  reader,  I  see,"  he  said,  presently, 
when  they  had  returned  to  the  office.  "  Well, 
I  don't  get  much  time  to  read  nowadays; 
but  there  's  nothing  I  enjoy  better,  when  I  've 
got  a  pipe  lit  of  an  evening,  than  to  sit  and 


1 68  YOUNG  LIVES 

listen  to  my  little  daughter  reading  Thackeray 
or  George  Eliot." 

Of  course  Henry  was  interested. 

"  Now  there  was  a  woman  who  knew  country 
life, "  Mr.  Flower  continued.  "  '  Silas  Marner, ' 
or  '  Adam  Bede. '  How  wonderfully  she  gets 
at  the  very  heart  of  the  people !  And  not  only 
that,  but  the  very  smell  of  country  air." 

And  Mr.  Flower  drew  a  long  breath  of 
longing  for  Miller's  Dale. 

Henry  mentally  furbished  up  his  George 
Eliot  to  reply. 

"  And  '  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  '  ?  "  he  said. 

"And  'Scenes  from  Clerical  Life,'"  said 
Mr.  Flower.  "There  are  some  rare  strokes 
of  nature  there." 

And  so  they  went  on  comparing  notes,  till 
a  little  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  seventeen  ap- 
peared, carrying  a  dainty  lunch  for  Henry, 
and  telling  Mr.  Flower  that  his  own  lunch 
was  ready. 

"This  is  my  daughter  of  whom  I  spoke," 
said  Mr.  Flower. 

"She  who  reads  Thackeray  and  George 
Eliot  to  you?"  said  the  Man  in  Possession; 
and,  when  they  had  gone,  he  said  to  himself 
"What  a  bright  little  face!" 


CHAPTER   XXI 

LITTLE  MISS   FLOWER 

LITTLE  Miss  Flower  continued  to  bring  Henry 
his  lunch  with  great  punctuality  each  day; 
and  each  day  he  found  himself  more  and  more 
interested  in  its  arrival,  though  when  it  had 
come  he  ate  it  with  no  special  haste.  Indeed, 
sometimes  it  almost  seemed  that  it  had  served 
its  purpose  in  merely  having  been  brought, 
judging  by  the  moments  of  reverie  in  which 
Henry  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it,  and  to  be 
thinking  of  something  else. 

Yes,  he  had  soon  begun  to  watch  for  that 
bright  little  face,  and  it  was  hardly  to  be  won- 
dered at;  for,  particularly  come  upon  against 
such  a  background,  the  face  had  something  of 
the  surprise  of  an  apparition.  It  seemed  all 
made  of  light;  and  when  one  o'clock  had  come, 
and  Henry  heard  the  expected  footsteps  of  his 
little  waiting-maid,  and  the  tinkle  of  the  tray 
she  carried,  coming  up  the  yard,  her  entrance 
was  as  though  some  one  had  carried  a  lamp 


1 70  YOUNG   LIVES 

into  the  dark  office.  Surely  it  was  more  like 
the  face  of  a  spirit  than  that  of  a  little  human 
girl,  and  you  would  almost  have  expected  it 
to  shine  in  the  dark.  When  you  got  used  to 
the  light  of  it,  you  realised  that  the  radiance 
poured  from  singularly,  even  disproportion- 
ately, large  blue  eyes,  set  beneath  a  broad 
white  brow  of  great  purity,  and  that  what  at 
first  had  seemed  rays  of  light  around  her  head 
was  a  mass  of  sunny  gold-brown  hair  which 
glinted  even  in  shadow. 

Strange  indeed  are  the  vagaries  of  the 
Spirit  of  Beauty !  From  how  many  high 
places  will  she  turn  away,  yet  delight  to 
waste  herself  upon  a  slum  like  this !  How 
fantastic  the  accident  that  had  brought  such  a 
face  to  flower  in  such  a  spot !  —  and  yet  hardly 
more  fantastic,  he  reflected,  than  that  which 
had  sown  his  own  family  haphazard  where 
they  were.  Was  it  the  ironic  fate  of  power 
to  be  always  a  god  in  exile,  turning  mean 
wheels  with  mighty  hands ;  and  was  Cinderella 
the  fable  of  the  eternal  lot  of  beauty  in  this 
capriciously  ordered  world? 

Yes,  what  chance  wind,  blowing  all  the 
way  from  Derbyshire,  had  set  down  Mr. 
Flower  with  his  little  garden  of  girls  in  this 


LITTLE   MISS   FLOWER  171 

uncongenial  spot?  For  by  this  Henry  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  whole  family: 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Flower  and  four  daughters  in 
all,  —  all  pretty  girls,  but  not  one  of  the 
others  with  a  face  like  that,  —  which  was  an- 
other puzzle.  How  is  it  that  out  of  one  family 
one  will  be  chosen  by  the  Spirit  of  Beauty  or 
genius,  and  the  others  so  unmistakably  left? 
There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  whom  had 
been  chosen  here. 

One  day  the  step  coming  up  the  yard  at 
one  o'clock  seemed  to  be  different,  and  when 
the  door  opened  it  was  another  sister  who  had 
brought  his  lunch  that  day.  Her  eldest  sister 
was  ill,  she  explained,  and  in  bed ;  and  it  was 
so  for  the  next  day,  and  again  the  next.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  Henry  had  watched  so 
eagerly  for  that  little  face,  that  he  missed  it 
so  much  already  ? 

The  next  morning  he  bought  some  roses  on 
his  way  through  town,  and  begged  that  they 
might  be  allowed  to  brighten  her  room ;  and 
the  next  day  surely  it  was  the  same  light 
little  tread  once  more  coming  up  the  yard. 
Joy !  she  was  better  again.  She  looked  pale, 
he  said  anxiously,  and  ventured  to  say  too 
that  he  had  missed  her.  As  she  blushed  and 


i;2  YOUNG  LIVES 

looked  down,  he  saw  that  she  wore  one  of  his 
roses  in  her  bosom. 

He  had  already  begun  to  lend  her  books, 
•which  she  returned,  always  with  some  clever 
little  criticism,  often  girlishly  nai've,  but 
never  merely  conventional.  There  were 
brains  under  her  bright  hair.  One  day 
Henry  had  run  out  of  literature,  and  asked 
her  if  she  could  lend  him  a  book.  Anything, 
—  some  novel  he  had  read  before;  it  didn't 
matter.  Oh,  yes,  he  had  n't  read  George  Eliot 
for  ever  so  long.  Had  she  "The  Mill  on  the 
Floss "  ?  Yes,  it  had  been  a  present  from 
her  father.  She  would  bring  that.  As  she 
lingered  a  moment,  while  Henry  looked  at 
the  book,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  name  on  the 
title-page:  "Angel  Flower." 

"Is  that  your  name,  Miss  Flower?"  he 
said. 

"Yes;  father  wrote  it  there.  My  real 
name  is  Angelica;  but  they  call  me  Angel, 
for  short,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"  Are  you  surprised  ? "  said  Henry,  sud- 
denly blushing  like  a  girl,  as  though  he  had 
never  ventured  on  such  a  small  gallantry 
before.  "Angelica!  How  did  you  come  to 
get  such  a  beautiful  name?" 


LITTLE   MISS   FLOWER  173 

"Father  loves  beautiful  names,  and  his 
grandmother  was  called  Angelica." 

"I  wonder  if  I  might  call  you  Angelica?" 
presently  ventured  Henry,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Do  you  think  you  know  me  well  enough  ? " 
said  Angelica,  with  a  little  gasp,  which  was 
really  joy,  in  her  breath. 

Henry  didn't  answer;  but  their  eyes  met 
in  a  long,  still  look.  In  each  heart  behind 
the  stillness  was  a  storm  of  indescribable 
sweetness.  Henry  leaned  forward,  his  face 
grown  very  pale,  and  impulsively  took 
Angelica's  hand,  — 

"  I  think,  after  all,  I  'd  rather  call  you 
Angel,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

MIKE'S    FIRST   LAURELS 

THE  gardens  of  Sidon  had  a  curious  habit 
of  growing  laurel-trees;  laurels  and  rhodo- 
dendrons were  the  only  wear  in  shrubs. 
Rhododendrons  one  can  understand.  They 
are  to  the  garden  what  mahogany  is  to  the 
front  parlour,  —  the  bourgeoisie  of  the  vege- 
table kingdom.  But  the  laurel, — what  use 
could  they  have  for  laurel  in  Sidon  ?  Possibly 
they  supplied  it  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  — 
market-gardeners,  so  to  say,  to  the  Temple  of 
Fame;  it  could  hardly  be  for  home  consump- 
tion. Well,  at  all  events,  it  was  a  peculiarity 
fortunate  for  Esther's  purpose,  as  one  morn- 
ing, soon  after  breakfast,  she  went  about  the 
garden  cutting  the  glossiest  branches  of  the 
distinguished  tree.  As  she  filled  her  arms 
with  them,  she  recalled  with  a  smile  the 
different  purpose  for  which,  dragged  at  the 
heels  of  one  of  Henry's  enthusiasms,  she  had 
gathered  them  several  years  before. 


MIKE'S   FIRST   LAURELS         175 

At  that  period  Henry  had  been  a  mighty  en- 
tomologist ;  and,  as  the  late  summer  came  on, 
he  and  all  available  sisters  would  set  out, 
armed  with  butterfly-nets  and  other  parapher- 
nalia, just  before  twilight,  to  the  nearest  wood- 
land, where  they  would  proceed  to  daub  the 
trees  with  an  intoxicating  preparation  of  honey 
and  rum,  — a  temptation  to  which  moths  were 
declared  in  text-books  to  be  incapable  of 
resistance.  Then,  as  night  fell,  Henry  would 
light  his  bull's-eye,  and  cautiously  visit  the 
various  snares.  It  was  a  sight  worth  seeing 
to  come  upon  those  little  night-clubs  of 
drunken  and  bewildered  moths,  hanging  on  to 
the  sweetness  with  tragic  gluttony,  —  an  easy 
prey  for  Henry's  eager  fingers,  which,  as 
greedy  of  them  as  they  of  the  honey,  would 
seize  and  thrust  them  into  the  lethal  chamber, 
in  the  form  of  a  cigar-box  loosely  filled  with 
bruised  laurel  leaves,  which  hung  by  a  strap 
from  his  shoulder. 

It  was  for  such  exciting  employment  that 
Esther  had  once  gathered  laurel  leaves.  And, 
once  again,  she  remembered  gathering  them 
one  Shakespeare's  birthday,  to  crown  a  little 
bust  in  Henry's  study.  The  sacred  head  had 
worn  them  proudly  all  day,  and  they  all  had  a 


176  YOUNG  LIVES 

feeling  that  somehow  Shakespeare  must  know 
about  it,  and  appreciate  the  little  offering; 
just  as  even  to-day  one  might  bring  roses  and 
myrtle,  or  the  blood  of  a  maiden  dove  to 
Venus,  and  expect  her  to  smile  upon  our 
affairs  of  the  heart. 

But  it  was  for  a  dearer  purpose  that  Esther 
was  gathering  them  this  morning.  That  com- 
ing evening  Mike  was  to  utter  his  first  stage- 
words  in  public.  The  laurel  was  to  crown 
the  occasion  on  which  Mike  was  to  make  that 
memorable  utterance:  "That's  a  pie  as  is  a 
pie,  is  that  there  pie ! " 

Now  while  Esther  was  busily  weaving  this 
laurel  into  a  wreath,  Henry  was  busily  weav- 
ing the  best  words  he  could  find  into  a  son- 
net to  accompany  the  wreath.  When  Angel 
duly  brought  him  his  lunch,  it  was  finished, 
and  lay  about  on  his  desk  in  rags  and  tatters 
of  composition.  Angel  was  going  to  the 
performance  with  her  sisters,  —  for  all  these 
young  people  were  fond  of  advertising  each 
other,  and  he  had  soon  told  her  about  Mike, 
—  so  she  was  interested  to  hear  the  sonnet. 
Whatever  other  qualities  poetry  may  lack,  the 
presence  of  generous  sincerity  will  always 
give  it  a  certain  value,  to  all  but  the  merely 


MIKE'S  FIRST  LAURELS         177 

supercilious;  and  this  sonnet,  boyish  in  its 
touches  of  grandiloquence,  had  yet  a  certain 
pathos  of  strong  feeling  about  it. 

Not  unto  him  alone  whom  loud  acclaim 
Declares  the  victor  does  the  meed  belong, 
For  others,  standing  silent  in  the  throng, 

May  well  be  worthier  of  a  nobler  fame  ; 

And  so,  dear  friend,  although  unknown  thy  name 
Unto  the  shouting  herd,  we  would  give  tongue 
To  our  deep  thought,  and  the  world's  great  among 

By  this  symbolic  laurel  thee  proclaim. 

And  if,  perchance,  the  herd  shall  find  thee  out 
In  coming  time,  and  many  a  nobler  crown 

To  one  they  love  to  honour  gladly  throw ; 
Wilt  thou  not  turn  thee  from  their  eager  shout, 

And  whisper  o'er  these  leaves,  then  sere  and  brown  : 
*  Thou  'rt  late,  O  world !  love  knew  it  long  ago  ? ' 

The  reader  will  probably  agree  with 
Angel  in  considering  the  last  line  the  best. 
But,  of  course,  she  thought  the  whole  was 
wonderful. 

"  How  wonderful  it  must  be  to  be  able  to 
write ! "  she  said,  with  a  look  in  her  face 
which  was  worth  all  the  books  ever  written. 

"And  how  wonderful  even  to  have  some- 
thing written  to  one  like  that ! " 

"Surely  that  must  have  happened  to  you," 
said  Henry,  slyly. 

12 


1 78  YOUNG  LIVES 

"You're  only  laughing  at  me." 

"  No,  I  'm  not.  You  don't  know  what  may 
have  been  written  to  you.  Poems  may  quite 
well  have  been  written  to  you  without  your 
having  heard  of  them.  The  poet  mayn't  have 
thought  them  worthy  of  you." 

"What  nonsense!  Why,  I  don't  know  any 
poets ! " 

"Oh!"  said  Henry. 

"I  mean,  except  you." 

"And  how  do  you  know  that  I  haven't 
written  a  whole  book  full  of  poems  to  you? 
I  've  known  you  —  how  long  now  ?  " 

"Two  months  next  Monday,"  said  Angel, 
with  that  chronological  accuracy  on  such 
matters  which  seems  to  be  a  special  gift  of 
women  in  love.  Men  in  love  are  nothing  like 
so  accurate. 

"Well,  that's  long  enough,  isn't  it?  And 
I  've  had  nothing  else  to  do,  you  know." 

"But  you  don't  care  enough  about  me?" 

"  You  never  know. " 

"But  tell  me  really,  have  you  written  some- 
thing for  me  ?  " 

"Ah,  you'd  like  to  know  now,  wouldn't 
you  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  would.  Tell  me.  It  would 
make  me  very  happy." 


MIKE'S  FIRST   LAURELS         179 

"It  really  would?" 

"You  know  it  would." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"It  would." 

"But  you  couldn't  care  for  the  poetry, 
unless  you  cared  for  the  poet  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Poetry  's  poetry,  isn't 
it,  whoever  makes  it  ?  But  what  if  I  did  care 
a  little  for  the  poet?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  you  do,  Angel  ?  " 

"Ah,  you  want  to  know  now,  don't  you?" 

"Tell  me.     Do  tell  me." 

"I'll  tell  you  when  you  read  me  my 
poem,"  and  as  Angel  prepared  to  run  off  with 
a  laugh,  Henry  called  after  her,  — 

"You  will  really?     It 's  a  bargain?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  bargain,"  she  called  back,  as 
she  tripped  off  again  down  the  yard. 

Mike's  dtbut  was  as  great  a  success  as  so 
small  a  part  could  make  it;  and  the  main 
point  about  it  was  the  excitement  of  knowing 
that  this  was  an  actual  beginning.  He  had 
made  them  all  laugh  and  cry  in  drawing- 
rooms  for  ever  so  long;  but  to-night  he  was 
on  the  stage,  the  real  stage  —  real,  at  all 
events,  for  him,  for  Mike  could  never  be  an 


1 8o  YOUNG  LIVES 

amateur.  Esther's  eyes  filled  with  glad  tears 
as  the  well-loved  little  figure  popped  in,  with 
a  baker's  paper  hat  on  his  head,  and  delivered 
the  absurd  words ;  and  if  you  had  looked  at 
Henry's  face  too,  you  would  have  been  at  a 
loss  to  know  which  loved  the  little  pastry- 
cook's boy  best. 

When  Mike  returned  to  his  dressing-room, 
a  mysterious  box  was  awaiting  him.  He 
opened  it,  and  found  Esther's  wreath  and 
Henry's  sonnet. 

"God  bless  them,"  he  said. 

No  doubt  it  was  very  childish  and  senti- 
mental, and  old-fashioned;  but  these  young 
people  certainly  loved  each  other. 

As  Mike  had  left  the  stage,  Henry  had 
turned  round  and  smiled  at  some  one  a  few 
seats  away.  Esther  had  noticed  him,  and 
looked  in  the  same  direction. 

"  Who  was  that  you  bowed  to,  Henry  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  another  time,"  he  said;  for 
he  had  a  good  deal  to  tell  her  about  Angel 
Flower. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE  MOTHER  OF  AN  ANGEL 

THE  Man  in  Possession  was  becoming  more 
and  more  a  favourite  at  Mr.  Flower's.  One 
day  Mr.  Flower,  taking  pity  on  his  loneli- 
ness, suggested  that  he  might  possibly  prefer 
to  have  his  lunch  in  company  with  them  all 
down  at  the  house.  Henry  gladly  embraced 
the  proposal,  and  thus  became  the  daily 
honoured  guest  of  a  family,  each  member  of 
which  had  some  simple  human  attraction  for 
him.  He  had  already  won  the  heart  of  simple 
Mrs.  Flower,  few  and  brief  as  had  been  his 
encounters  with  her,  and  that  heart  she  had 
several  times  coined  in  unexpected  cakes  and 
other  dainties  of  her  own  making;  but  when 
he  thus  became  partially  domiciled  with  the 
family,  she  was  his  slave  outright.  There 
was  a  reason  for  this,  which  will  need,  and 
may  perhaps  excuse,  a  few  lines  entirely 
devoted  to  Mrs.  Flower,  who,  on  her  own 
peculiar  merits,  deserves  them. 


1 82  YOUNG   LIVES 

Perhaps  to  introduce  Eliza  Flower  in  this 
way  is  to  take  her  more  seriously  than  any  of 
her  affectionate  acquaintance  were  able  to  do. 
For,  somehow,  people  had  a  bad  habit  of  laugh- 
ing at  Mrs.  Flower,  though  they  adtnitted  she 
was  the  hardest-working,  best-hearted  little 
housewife  in  the  world.  Housewife  in  fact  she 
was  in  excelsis,  not  to  say  ad  absurdum.  No 
little  woman  who  worked  herself  to  skin-and- 
bone  to  keep  things  straight,  and  the  home 
comfortable,  was  ever  a  more  typical  "squaw." 
Whatever  her  religious  opinions,  which,  one 
may  be  sure,  were  inflexibly  orthodox,  there 
can  be  no  question  that  Mr.  Flower  was  her 
god,  and,  as  the  hymn  says,  heaven  was  her 
home.  To  serve  God  and  Mr.  Flower  were 
to  her  the  same  thing;  and  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  a  god  who  had  no  socks  to  darn,  or 
linen  to  keep  spotless,  was  a  god  whom  Mrs. 
Flower  would  have  found  it  impossible  to 
conceive. 

A  more  complete  and  delighted  absorption 
in  the  physical  comforts  and  nourishments  of 
the  human  creature  than  Mrs.  Flower's,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  dreamer  to  imagine. 
Such  an  absolute  adjustment  between  a  being 
of  presumably  infinite  aspirations  and  immor- 


THE   MOTHER   OF   AN   ANGEL     183 

tal  discontents  and  its  environment,  is  a  hap- 
piness seldom  encountered  by  philosophers. 
To  think  of  death  for  poor  Mrs.  Flower  was  to 
conceive  a  homelessness  peculiarly  pathetic; 
unless,  indeed,  there  are  kitcheners  to  super- 
intend, beds  to  make,  rooms  to  "turn  out," 
and  four  spring-cleanings  a  year  in  heaven. 
Of  what  use  else  was  the  bewildering  gift  of 
immortality  to  one  who  was  touchingly  mortal 
in  all  her  tastes?  Indeed,  Henry  used  to  say 
that  Mrs.  Flower  was  the  most  convincing 
argument  against  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
that  he  had  ever  met. 

Yet,  though  it  was  quite  evident  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  world  else  she  cared  so 
much  to  do,  and  though  indeed  it  was  equally 
evident  that  she  was  one  of  the  best-natured 
little  creatures  in  the  world,  she  did  not  deny 
herself  a  certain  more  or  less  constant  asper- 
ity of  reference  to  occupations  which  kept  her 
on  her  feet  from  morning  till  night,  and  made 
her  the  slave  of  the  whole  house,  in  spite  of 
four  big  idle  daughters.  And  she  with  rheu- 
matism too,  so  bad  that  she  could  hardly  get 
up  and  down  stairs  ! 

Probably  nothing  so  much  as  Henry's 
respectful  sympathy  for  this  immemorial  rheu- 


1 84  YOUNG  LIVES 

matism  had  contributed  to  win  Mrs.  Flower's 
heart.  As  to  the  precise  amount  of  rheuma- 
tism from  which  Mrs.  Flower  suffered,  Henry 
soon  realised  that  there  seemed  to  be  an  irrev- 
erent scepticism  in  the  family,  nothing  short 
of  heartless;  for  rheumatism  so  poignantly 
expressive,  so  movingly  dramatised,  he  never 
remembered  to  have  met.  Mrs.  Flower  could 
not  walk  across  the  floor  without  grimaces  of 
pain,  or  piteous  indrawings  of  her  breath ;  and 
yet  demonstrations  that  you  might  have 
thought  would  have  softened  stones,  left  her 
unfeeling  audience  not  only  unmoved,  but 
apparently  even  unobservant.  From  sheer 
decency,  Henry  would  flute  out  something  to 
show  that  her  suffering  was  not  lost  on  him; 
but  it  is  to  be  feared  the  young  ones  would 
only  wink  at  each  other  at  this  sign  of 
unsophistication. 

"Oh,  you  unfeeling  child!"  Mrs.  Flower 
would  exclaim,  as  sometimes  she  caught  them 
exchanging  comments  in  this  way.  "And 
your  father,  there,  is  just  as  bad,"  she  would 
say,  impatient  to  provoke  somebody. 

This  remark  would  probably  prompt  Mr. 
Flower  to  the  indulgence  of  a  form  of  matri- 
monial banter  which  was  not  unlike  the  en- 


THE  MOTHER  OF  AN  ANGEL  185 

dearments  he  bestowed  upon  his  horses,  and 
which,  when  you  knew  that  he  loved  the 
little  quaint  woman  with  all  his  heart,  you 
were  able  to  translate  into  more  customary 
modes  of  affection. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  would  say,  "it's  evi- 
dently time  I  was  looking  out  for  some  active 
young  woman,  Eliza  —  when  you  begin  limp- 
ing about  like  that.  It 's  a  pity,  but  the  best 
of  us  must  wear  out  some  day  —  " 

This  superficially  heartless  pleasantry  he 
would  deliver  with  a  sweeping  wink  at  Henry 
and  his  four  girls;  but  Mrs.  Flower  would  see 
nothing  to  laugh  at,  for  humour  was  not  her 
strong  point. 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
Ralph,"  she  said,  "before  the  children.  I 
was  once  young  and  active  enough  to  take 
your  fancy,  anyhow.  Mr.  Mesurier,  won't 
you  have  a  little  more  spinach?  Do;  it's 
fresh  from  the  country  this  morning.  You 
mustn't  mind  Mr.  Flower.  He  's  fond  of  his 
joke;  and,  whatever  he  likes  to  say,  he'd  get 
on  pretty  badly  without  his  old  Eliza." 

"  Gracious,  no  !  "  Mr.  Flower  would  retort. 
"Don't  flatter  yourself,  old  girl.  I've  got 
my  eye  on  two  or  three  fine  young  women 


1 86  YOUNG  LIVES 

who  '11  be  glad  of  the  job,  I  assure  you;  "  but 
this,  perhaps,  proving  too  much  for  poor  Mrs. 
Flower,  whose  tears  were  never  far  away,  and 
apt  to  require  smelling-salts,  he  would  change 
his  tone  in  an  instant  and  say,  dropping  into 
his  Derbyshire  "thous,"  — 

"  Nonsense,  lass,  can't  thee  take  a  bit  of 
a  joke?  Come  now,  come.  Don't  be  silly. 
Thou  knowest  well  enough  what  thou  art  to 
me,  and  so  do  the  girls.  See,  let 's  have  a 
drive  out  to  Livingstone  Cemetery  this  after- 
noon. Thou 'rt  a  bit  out  o'  sorts.  It'll 
cheer  thee  up  a  bit." 

And  so  Mrs.  Flower  would  recover,  and 
harmony  would  be  restored,  and  nobody  would 
wink  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Certainly  it 
was  a  quaint  little  mother  for  an  Angel. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

AN  ANCIENT  THEORY  OF  HEAVEN 

"  WHEN  are  you  going  to  read  me  my  poem  ? " 
said  Angelica,  one  day. 

"When  are  you  going  to  tell  me  what  I 
asked?"  replied  Henry. 

"  Whenever  you  read  me  my  poem, "  retorted 
Angelica. 

"  All  right.  When  would  you  like  to  hear 
it?" 

"Now." 

"But  I  haven't  got  it  with  me  to-day." 

" Can't  you  remember  it?  " 

"  No,  not  to-day. " 

"  When  will  you  bring  it  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  what.  Come  with  me  to 
Woodside  Meadows  on  Saturday  afternoon. 
Your  father  won't  mind?" 

"Oh,  no;  father  likes  you." 

"I'm  glad,  because  I  'm  very  fond  of  him." 

"Yes,  he's  a  dear;  and  he's  got  far  more 


1 88  YOUNG   LIVES 

in  him  than  perhaps  you  think,  under  his 
country  ways.  If  you  could  see  him  in  the 
country,  it  would  make  you  cry.  He  loves 
it  so." 

"  Yes,  I  could  tell  that  by  the  way  he  talked 
of  Derbyshire  the  first  day  we  met.  But 
you'll  come  on  Saturday?" 

"Yes,  I '11  come." 

Angel !  Yes,  it  was  the  face  of  an  angel ; 
but,  bright  as  it  had  seemed  on  that  dark 
background,  it  seemed  almost  brighter  still 
as  it  moved  by  Henry's  side  among  the 
green  lanes.  He  had  never  known  Angel  till 
then,  never  known  what  primal  ecstasy  her 
nature  was  capable  of.  In  the  town,  her  soul 
was  like  a  flame  in  a  lamp  of  pearl ;  here  in 
the  country,  it  was  like  a  star  in  a  vase  of 
dew.  To  be  near  trees,  to  touch  their  rough 
barks,  to  fill  one's  hands  with  green  leaves, 
to  hear  birds,  to  listen  to  running  water,  to 
look  up  into  the  sky, —  oh,  this  was  to  come 
home!  —  and  Angel's  joy  in  these  things  was 
that  of  some  wood-spirit  who  you  might  ex- 
pect any  moment,  like  Undine,  to  slip  out  of 
your  hands  in  some  laughing  brook,  or  change 
to  a  shower  of  blossom  over  your  head. 


ANCIENT  THEORY   OF   HEAVEN    189 

"Oh,  how  good  the  country  is!  I  wish 
father  were  here.  I  could  eat  the  grass. 
And  I  just  want  to  take  the  sky  in  my  arms." 
As  she  swept  across  meadow  and  through 
woodland,  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child, 
greedily  hastening  from  room  to  room  of 
some  inexhaustible  palace,  her  little  tense 
body  seemed  like  a  transparent  garment  flut- 
tering round  the  flying  feet  of  her  soul. 

At  length  she  flung  herself  down,  almost 
breathless,  at  the  grassy  foot  of  a  great  tree. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  'm  mad,"  she  said. 
"And  really  I  think  I  must  be;  for  why 
should  mere  green  grass  and  blue  sky  and  a 
few  birds  make  one  so  happy  ? " 

"  Why  should  anything  make  us  happy  ?  " 

"  Or  sad  ?  " 

"But  now  you  're  going  to  read  my  poem," 
she  said,  presently. 

"Yes;  but  something  has  to  happen  before 
I  can  read  it,"  said  Henry,  growing  unac- 
countably serious ;  "for  it  is  in  the  nature  of  a 
prophecy,  or  at  all  events  of  an  anticipation. 
You  have  to  fulfil  that  prophecy  first." 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  very  mysterious  poem. 
But  what  have  I  to  do  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  do  it." 


190  YOUNG  LIVES 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?     Try  me. " 

"  Oh,  Angel,  I  care  nothing  about  poems. 
Can't  you  see  how  I  love  you?  That's  all 
poetry  will  ever  mean  to  me.  Just  to  say 
over  and  over  again,  '  I  love  Angel. '  Just 
to  find  new  and  wonderful  ways  of  saying 
that  —  " 

"  Listen,  Henry.  I  've  loved  you  from  the 
first  moment  I  saw  you  that  day  talking  to 
father,  and  I  shall  love  you  till  I  die." 

"  Dear,  dear  Angel ! " 

"Henry!" 

Then  Henry's  arms  enfolded  Angel  with 
wonderful  love,  and  her  fresh  young  lips 
were  on  his,  and  the  world  faded  away  like  a 
dream  within  a  dream. 

"  Now  perhaps  you  can  read  me  your  poem," 
said  Angel,  after  a  while ;  and  she  noticed  a 
curious  something  different  in  her  way  of 
speaking  to  him,  as  in  his  way  of  speaking  to 
her,  —  something  blissfully  homelike,  as  it 
were,  as  though  they  had  sat  like  this  for 
ever  and  ever,  and  were  quite  used  to  it, 
though  at  the  same  time  it  remained  thrill- 
ingly  new. 

"It's  only  a  silly  little  childish   rhyme," 


ANCIENT  THEORY  OF   HEAVEN    191 

said    Henry;  "some   day   I'll    write  you  far 
better. " 

Then,    coming   close   to    Angel,    he   whis- 
pered, — 

This  is  Angelica, 

Fallen  from  heaven, 
Fallen  from  heaven 

Into  my  arms. 

Will  you  go  back  again, 

Little  Angelica, 
Back  up  to  heaven, 

Out  of  my  arms  ! 

"  No,"  said  Angelica, 

"  Here  is  my  heaven, 
Here  is  my  heaven, 

Here  in  your  arms. 

"  Not  out  of  heaven, 

But  into  my  heaven, 
Here  have  I  fallen, 

Here  in  your  arms." 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE   LAST   CONTINUED,   AFTER  A   BRIEF 
INTERVAL 

AFTER  the  long  happy  silence  which  followed 
Henry's  recitation  of  his  verses,  Angel  at 
length  spoke,  — 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  something  now?  "  she  said. 
"  I  'm  almost  ashamed  to,  for  I  know  you  '11 
laugh  at  me,  and  call  me  superstitious." 

"  Go  on,  little  child,"  said  Henry. 

"  You  remember  the  day,"  said  Angel,  in  a 
hushed  little  impressive  voice,  "  I  first  saw  you 
in  father's  office?" 

Henry  was  able  to  remember  it. 

"  Well,  that  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  seen 
you." 

"  Really,  Angel !  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me 
before?  Where  was  it,  then?  In  the  street, 
or  where?  " 

"  No,  it  was  much  stranger  than  that,"  said 
Angel.  "  Do  you  believe  the  future  can  be 
foretold  to  us?" 


THE   LAST   CONTINUED          193 

"Oh,  it  was  in  a  dream,  you  funny  Angel; 
was  that  it?"  said  Henry,  whose  rationalism 
at  this  period  was  the  chief  danger  to  his 
imagination. 

"  No,  not  a  dream.  Something  stranger 
than  that." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  give  it  up." 

"  It  was  like  this,"  Angel  continued  ;  "  there  's 
a  strange  old  gipsy  woman  who  lives  near 
us  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  see,  your  hand  —  palmistry,"  said 
Henry,  with  a  touch  of  gentle  impatience. 

"  Henry,  dear,  I  said  you  would  laugh  at 
me.  I  won't  tell  you  now,  if  you  "re  going  to 
take  it  in  that  spirit." 

Henry  promptly  locked  up  his  reason  for 
the  moment,  with  apologies,  and  professed 
himself  open  to  conviction. 

"  Well,  mother  sometimes  helps  this  poor 
old  woman,  and,  one  day,  when  she  happened 
to  call,  Alice  and  Edith  and  I  were  in  the 
kitchen  helping  mother.  '  God  bless  you, 
lady,'  she  said,  —  you  know  how  they  talk,  — 
'  you  've  got  a  kind  heart ;  and  how  are  all 
the  young  ladies?  It's  time,  I'm  thinking, 
they  had  their  fortunes  told.'  '  Oh,  yes,'  we 
all  said,  'tell  us  our  fortunes,  mother,'  —  we 


194  YOUNG   LIVES 

always  called  her  mother.  '  I  '11  tell  you  yours, 
my  dear,'  she  said,  taking  hold  of  my  hand. 
'  Your  fortunes  are  too  young  yet,  ladies,'  she 
said  to  Alice  and  Edith ;  '  come  to  me  in  a 
year's  time  and,  maybe,  I  '11  tell  you  all  about 
him.'  " 

"  You  dear ! "  said  Henry,  by  way  of  in- 
terruption. 

"  Then,"  continued  Angel,  "  she  took  me 
aside,  and  looked  at  my  hand ;  and  she  told  me 
first  what  had  happened  to  me,  and  then  what 
was  to  come.  What  she  told  me  of  the  past " 
—  as  if  dear  Angel,  whose  life  was  as  yet  all 
future,  could  as  yet  have  had  any  past  to 
speak  of! — "was  so  true,  that  I  couldn't 
help  half  believing  in  what  she  said  of  the 
future.  Now  you  're  laughing  again  !  " 

"  No,  indeed,  I  'm  not,"  said  Henry,  per- 
fectly solemn. 

"  She  told  me  that  just  before  I  was  twenty, 
I  would  meet  a  young  man  with  dark  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  very  unexpectedly,  —  I  shall  be 
twenty  in  six  weeks, — and  that  he  would  be 
my  fate.  But  the  strangest  is  yet  to  come. 
'Would  you  like  to  see  his  face?'  she  said. 
She  made  me  a  little  frightened  ;  but,  of  course, 
I  said,  '  Yes,'  and  then  she  brought  out  of  her 


THE   LAST  CONTINUED         195 

pocket  a  sort  of  glass  egg,  and  told  me  to 
look  in  it,  and  tell  her  what  I  saw.  So  I 
looked,  but  for  a  long  time  I  could  see  nothing; 
but  suddenly  there  seemed  to  be  something 
moving  in  the  centre  of  the  glass,  like  clouds 
breaking  when  the  sun  is  coming  out;  and  pres- 
ently I  could  see  a  lamp  burning  on  a  table ; 
and  then  round  the  lamp  shelves  of  books 
began  to  grow  out  of  the  mist ;  then  I  saw  a 
picture  hanging  in  a  recess,  a  bowed  head 
with  a  strange  sort  of  head-dress  on  it,  a  dark 
thin  face,  very  sad-looking  —  " 

"  Why,  that  must  have  been  my  Dante !  " 
said  Henry,  astonished  in  spite  of  himself. 

The  exclamation  was  a  "score"  for  Angel; 
and  she  continued,  with  greater  confidence, 
"  And  then  I  seemed  to  see  some  one  sitting 
there  ;  but,  though  I  tried  and  tried,  I  could  n't 
catch  sight  of  his  face.  I  told  the  old  woman 
what  I  saw.  '  Wait  a  minute,'  she  said,  '  then 
try  again.'  So  I  waited,  and  presently  tried 
again.  This  time  I  had  n't  so  long  to  wait 
before  I  saw  a  room  again ;  but  it  was  quite 
different,  a  big  desk  ran  along  in  front  of  a 
window,  and  there  were  two  tall  office-stools. 
'  Why,  it 's  father's  office,'  I  said.  '  Go  on 
looking,'  said  the  old  woman,  '  and  tell  me 


196  YOUNG   LIVES 

what  you  see.'  In  a  moment  or  two,  I  saw 
some  one  sitting  on  one  of  the  stools,  first 
dimly  and  then  clearer  and  clearer.  '  Why,'  I 
almost  cried  out,  for  I  felt  more  and  more 
frightened,  '  I  see  a  young  man  sitting  at  a 
desk,  with  a  pen  behind  his  ear.'  '  Can  you 
see  him  clearly?'  'Yes,'  I  said;  'he's  got 
dark  curly  hair  and  blue  eyes.'  '  You  're  sure 
you  won't  forget  his  face  ?  You  'd  know  him 
if  you  saw  him  again?'  'Indeed,  I  would,'  I 
said.  '  All  right,'  said  the  old  woman,  '  you 
can  give  me  back  the  crystal.  You  keep  a 
look  out  for  that  young  man,  —  you  will  see 
him  some  day,  mark  my  words,  and  that 
young  man  will  be  your  fate.' 

"  Now,  surely,  you  won't  deny  that  was 
strange,  will  you  ?  "  asked  Angel,  in  conclusion. 
"  And  I  shall  never  forget  the  start  it  gave  me 
that  day  when  I  came  in,  quite  unsuspecting, 
with  your  lunch-tray,  and  saw  you  talking  to 
father,  with  your  pen  behind  your  ear,  and 
your  blue  eyes  and  dark  hair.  Now,  is  n't  it 
strange?  How  can  one  help  being  supersti- 
tious after  a  thing  like  that?" 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  I?"  Henry 
asked,  quizzically.  "  It  appears  to  me  that 
any  presentable  young  man  with  a  pen  behind 


THE   LAST   CONTINUED         197 

his  ear  would  have  answered  nearly  enough 
to  the  vision.  You  would  hardly  have  been 
quite  sure  of  the  colour  of  the  eyes,  would  you, 
now,  if  the  old  woman  had  n't  mentioned  it 
first,  as  she  looked  at  your  hand?" 

"  You  are  horrid  !  "  said  Angel ;  "  I  wish  I 
had  n't  told  you  now.  But  it  was  n't  merely 
the  colour  of  the  eyes.  It  was  the  look  in 
them." 

"  Look  again,  and  see  if  you  have  n't 
made  a  mistake.  Look  very  carefully,"  said 
Henry. 

"  I  won't,"  said  Angel ;  "  I  think  you  're 
cruel." 

"  Angel,  if  you  '11  only  look,  and  say  you 
are  quite  sure,  I  '11  believe  every  word  the  old 
woman  said." 

At  last  Angel  was  persuaded  to  look,  and  to 
look  again,  and  the  old  woman's  credit  rose  at 
each  look. 

"  Yes,  Henry,  whatever  happens,  I  know  it 
is  true.  My  life  is  in  your  hands." 

Those  are  solemn  words  for  one  human 
being  to  hear  uttered  by  another ;  and  a  shiver 
of  new  responsibility  involuntarily  ran  through 
Henry's  veins. 

"  May  the  hands  be  always  strong  and  clean 


198  YOUNG  LIVES 

enough  to  hold  so  precious  a  gift,"  he  an- 
swered, gravely. 

"Are  you  sad,  dear?"  asked  Angel,  pre- 
sently, with  a  sort  of  divination. 

"  Not  sad,  dear,  but  serious,"  he  answered. 

"  Have  I  turned  to  a  responsibility  so  soon?" 

"You  strange,  wise  child,  I  believe  you  are 
a  witch." 

"  Oh,  I  was  right  then." 

"  Right  in  one  way,  but  perhaps  wrong  in 
another.  Don't  you  know  that  some  respon- 
sibilities are  the  most  dearly  coveted  of  mortal 
honours?  But  then  we  shouldn't  be  worthy 
of  them,  if  they  did  n't  make  us  feel  a  little 
serious.  Can't  you  imagine  that  to  hear 
another  say  that  her  life  is  in  one's  hands 
makes  one  feel  just  a  little  solemn?" 

"But  isn't  your  life  in  mine,  Henry?"  asked 
Angel,  simply. 

"  Of  course  it  is,  dear,"  answered  Henry. 

And  then  the  moon  began  to  rise  through 
the  trees,  pouring  enchantment  over  the  sleep- 
ing woods,  and  the  meadows  half-submerged  in 
lakes  of  mist. 

Angel  drew  close  to  Henry,  and  watched  it 
with  big  eyes. 

"  What    a   wonderful    world    it    is !      How 


THE   LAST   CONTINUED          199 

beautiful  and  how  sad ! "  she  said,  half  to 
herself. 

"  Yes ;  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  sad 
as  beauty,"  answered  Henry. 

44  If  only  to-night  could  last  forever !  If 
only  we  could  die  now,  sitting  just  like  this, 
with  the  moon  rising  yonder." 

44  But  we  shall  have  many  nights  like  this 
together,"  said  Henry. 

44  No ;  we  shall  never  have  this  night  again. 
We  may  have  other  wonderful  nights,  but  they 
will  be  different.  This  will  never  come  again." 

Henry  instinctively  realised  that  here  was  a 
mystical  side  to  Angel's  nature  which,  how- 
ever it  might  charm  him,  was  not  to  be  indis- 
criminately encouraged,  and  he  tried  to  rally 
her  out  of  her  sadness,  but  her  feeling  was  too 
much  his  own  for  him  to  persist;  and  as  the 
moonlight  moved  in  its  ascension  from  one  beau- 
tiful change  to  another,  now  woven  by  branches 
and  leaves  into  weird  tapestries  of  light  and 
darkness,  now  hanging  like  some  golden  fruit 
from  the  boughs,  and  now  uplifted  like  a  lamp 
in  some  window  of  space,  they  sat  together, 
alike  held  by  the  ancient  spell ;  and,  presently, 
Henry  so  far  lost  himself  in  it  as  to  quote 
some  lines  entirely  in  Angel's  mood : 


200  YOUNG  LIVES 

"  She  dwells  with  Beauty  —  Beauty  that  must  die  ; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips : 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veiled  Melancholy  has  her  sov'ran  shrine, 
Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous  tongue 

Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine; 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 

And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung." 

"  What  wonderful  lines!  "  said  Angel;  "who 
wrote  them  ?  Are  they  your  own  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Angel,  what  would  I  give  if  they  were  ! 
No,  they  are  by  John  Keats.  You  must  let 
me  give  you  his  poems." 

Presently,  the  moonlight  began  to  lose  its 
lustre.  It  grew  pale,  and,  as  it  were,  anxious ; 
dark  billows  of  clouds  threatened  to  swallow 
up  its  silver  coracle,  and  presently  the  world 
grew  suddenly  black  with  its  submergence, 
the  woods  and  meadows  disappeared,  and 
Henry  and  Angel  began  playfully  to  strike 
matches  to  see  each  other's  faces.  Thus  they 
suddenly  flared  up  to  each  other  out  of  the 
darkness,  like  Rembrandts  seen  by  lightning, 
and  then  they  were  lost  again,  and  were  only 
voices  fumbling  for  each  other  in  the  dark. 

Yet,  even  so,  lips  and  arms  found  each  other 


THE   LAST   CONTINUED         201 

without  much  difficulty,  and  when  they  began 
to  think  of  the  last  train,  and  fear  they  would 
miss  it,  but  waited  for  just  one  last  good-night 
kiss  under  their  sacred  tree,  the  world  sud- 
denly lit  up  again,  for  the  moon  had  triumphed 
over  its  enemies,  and  come  out  just  in  time  to 
give  them  its  blessing. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

CONCERNING    THE   BEST    KIND    OF    WIFE  FOR 
A  POET 

WE  are  apt  sometimes  to  complain  that  so 
much  of  importance  in  our  lives  is  at  the  dis- 
pensation of  accident,  yet  how  often  too  are 
we  compelled  to  confess  that  some  of  the  hap- 
piest and  most  fruitful  circumstances  of  our 
lives  are  due  to  the  far-seeing  diplomacies  of 
chance. 

Among  no  set  of  circumstances  is  this  more 
true  than  in  the  fateful  relations  of  men  and 
women.  While,  in  a  blind  sort  of  way,  we 
may  be  said  to  choose  for  ourselves  the  man 
or  woman  with  whom  we  are  to  share  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  our  years,  yet  the  choice  is 
only  superficially  ours.  Frequently  our  brains, 
our  antecedent  plans,  have  no  part  in  the  deci- 
sion. The  woman  we  choose  appears  at  the 
wrong  time,  in  the  wrong  place,  in  an  unde- 
sirable environment,  with  hair  and  eyes  and 


THE   BEST  WIFE   FOR  A   POET     203 

general  complexion  different  in  colour  from 
what  we  had  predestined  for  ourselves,  short 
when  we  had  made  up  our  minds  for  tall,  and 
tall  when  we  had  hoped  for  short  Yet,  in 
in  spite  of  all  our  preconceptions,  we  choose 
her.  This  is  not  properly  a  choice  in  which 
the  intelligence  confessedly  submits  to  vio- 
lence. It  is  the  compulsion  of  mysterious 
instincts  that  know  better  than  our  brains  or 
our  tastes. 

Now  had  she  been  asked  beforehand,  Esther 
might  not  have  sketched  out  a  Mike  as  the 
ideal  of  her  maiden  dreams,  nor  indeed  might 
Henry  have  described  an  Angelica,  any  more 
than  perhaps  Mike  an  Esther,  or  Angelica  a 
Henry.  Yet  chance  has  only  to  place  Esther 
and  Mike,  and  Angelica  and  Henry  in  the  same 
room  together  for  less  than  a  minute  of  time, 
and  they  fly  into  the  arms  of  each  other's  souls 
with  an  instant  recognition.  This  is  a  mys- 
tery which  it  will  take  more  than  biology  to 
explain. 

A  young  man's  dreams  of  the  woman  he 
will  some  day  marry  are  apt  to  be  meretri- 
cious, or  at  all  events  conventional.  A  young 
poet,  especially,  is  likely  to  err  in  the  direction 
of  paragons  of  beauty,  or  fame,  or  romance. 


204  YOUNG   LIVES 

Perhaps  he  dreams  of  a  great  singer,  or  an 
illustrious  beauty,  ignorant  of  the  natural  law 
which  makes  great  singers  and  illustrious 
beauties,  in  common  with  all  artists,  incapable 
of  loving  really  any  one  but  themselves.  Or 
perhaps  it  will  be  some  woman  of  great  and 
exquisite  culture.  But  chance  knows  that 
women  of  great  and  exquisite  culture  are 
usually  beings  lacking  in  those  plastic  elemen- 
tal qualities  which  a  poet,  above  all  men,  needs 
in  the  woman  he  shall  love.  Their  very  cul- 
ture, while  it  may  seem  to  broaden,  really  nar- 
rows them,  limits  them  to  a  caste  of  mind,  and, 
for  an  infinite  suggestiveness,  substitutes  a  few 
finite  accomplishments. 

Critics  without  understanding  have  wondered 
now  and  again  at  attachments  such  as  that  of 
Heine  for  his  Mathilde.  Yet  in  some  ways 
Mathilde  was  the  type  of  wife  best  suited  for 
a  poet.  She  was  just  a  wondering  child,  a  bit 
of  unspoiled  chaos.  She  meant  as  little  in- 
tellectually, and  as  much  spiritually,  as  a 
wave  of  the  sea,  a  bird  of  the  air,  a  star  in 
the  sky. 

Another  great  poet  always  kept  in  his  room 
a  growing  plant  in  a  big  tub  of  earth,  and 
another  tub  full  of  fresh  water.  With  the  fire 


THE   BEST  WIFE   FOR  A  POET     205 

going,  he  used  to  say  that  he  had  the  four 
elements  within  his  four  walls;  and  to  people 
unaccustomed  to  talk  with  the  elements  these 
no  doubt  seemed  dull  and  even  remarkable 
companions,  —  like  Heine's  Mathilde. 

Now  Angel,  though  far  more  than  a  goose 
intellectually,  having,  indeed,  a  very  keen  and 
subtle  mind,  was  only  secondarily  intellectual, 
being  primarily  something  far  more  important. 
You  no  more  asked  of  her  to  be  intellectual, 
than  you  expect  a  spirit  to  be  mathematical. 
She  was  just  a  dream-child,  thrilling  with 
wonder  and  love  before  the  strange  world 
in  which  she  had  been  mysteriously  placed,  — 
a  dream-child  and  an  excellent  housewife  in 
one,  as  full  of  common-sense  on  the  one  hand, 
as  she  was  filled  with  fairy  "  nonsense  "  on  the 
other.  She  was  just,  in  fact,  the  wife  for  a  poet. 

The  interest  taken  in  each  other  by  Angel 
and  the  Man  in  Possession  had  not  been  un- 
observed by  Angel's  family.  Her  sisters  had 
teased  her  considerably  on  the  subject. 

"  Why  have  you  changed  the  way  of  wear- 
ing your  hair,  Angel  ?  "  they  would  say,  "  Does 
Mr.  Mesurier  like  it  that  way? "  or,  "  My 
word !  we  are  getting  smart  and  particular, 
now  a  certain  gentleman  has  come  into  the 


206  YOUNG   LIVES 

office  !  "  or  again,  "  How  small  your  writing  is 
nowadays,  Angel !  What  have  you  changed  it 
for?  I  like  your  big  old  writing  best;  but  I 
suppose  —  "  and  then  they  would  retreat  to  a 
safe  distance  to  finish  —  "  Mr.  Mesurier  is  n't 
of  the  same  opinion  !  " 

Sometimes  Esther  would  start  in  pursuit, 
and  playful  scrimmages  would  ensue,  the 
hilarious  uproar  of  which  would  turn  poor 
Mrs.  Flower's  brain. 

Mrs.  Flower  had  certainly  not  been  unob- 
servant, and  one  may  perhaps  suspect  that 
those  cakes  and  other  delicacies  which  she 
had  so  often  sent  up  the  yard,  had  not  been 
sent  entirely  without  those  ulterior  designs 
which  every  thoughtful  mother  may  becom- 
ingly cherish  for  her  daughters. 

After  Angel  and  Henry's  excursion  to  the 
country  together,  Henry  felt  that  some  official 
announcement  of  the  state  of  his  heart  was 
demanded  of  him,  and  lost  no  time  in  finding 
Mr.  Flower  alone  for  that  tremulous  purpose. 
However,  it  was  soon  over.  There  were  no 
questions  of  dots  and  marriage  settlements  to 
discuss.  Genealogically,  both  sides  were  about 
equally  distinguished,  and,  socially,  belonged 
to  that  large  undefined  class  called  "  respecta- 


THE   BEST  WIFE   FOR   A  POET     207 

ble  "  —  though  it  must  not  be  supposed  that, 
when  so  minded,  families  of  that  "  respecta- 
ble "  zone  do  not  occasionally  make  nice  dis- 
tinctions. "  Do  you  know  what  you  are  asking 
for?"  once  said  a  retired  tradesman's  wife  in 
Sidon  to  her  daughter's  suitor.  "  Do  you 
know  that  both  Katie's  grandfathers  were 
mayors?  " 

But  there  were  no  traditional  mayoralties  to 
keep  these  two  young  hearts  asunder.  It  was 
understood  on  both  sides  that  they  had  noth- 
ing to  bring  but  each  other,  and  they  asked 
nothing  better.  Angel  was  going  to  marry  a 
poet,  and  Henry  a  fairy;  and  not  only  they 
themselves,  but  the  whole  family,  was  more 
than  satisfied.  Mr.  Flower  was  undisguisedly 
pleased,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he 
gripped  Henry's  hand. 

"  I  've  liked  you,"  he  said,  "  since  the  first 
time  we  shook  hands.  There  was  something 
honest  about  your  grip  I  liked,  and  I  go  a 
good  deal  by  these  things.  It  is  not  many 
men  I  would  trust  with  my  little  Angel;  for 
when  you  take  her,  you  take  her  father's  great 
treasure.  Guard  her  well,  dear  lad,  guard  her 
well." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  BOOK   OF  ANGELICA 

THE  first  duty  of  a  poet's  wife  is  to  inspire 
him.  When  she  ceases  to  do  that  —  but  that 
is  a  consideration  which  need  not  occupy  us  in 
this  unsophisticated  story.  We  have  already 
seen  that  Angelica  in  this  respect  early  began 
her  wifely  duties  towards  Henry ;  and  that  little 
song  he  read  in  chapter  twenty-five  was  but 
one  of  many  he  had  written  to  her  in  his 
capacity  of  man  in  possession. 

The  feminine  inspirations  of  his  early  youth 
had  been  numerous,  but  mediocre  in  quality. 
Even  in  love,  as  in  all  else,  his  opportunities 
had  been  second  and  even  third-rate.  He  had 
broken  his  boy's  heart,  time  after  time,  for  some 
commonplace,  little  provincial  miss  who  knew 
not  "  the  god's  wonder  or  his  woe."  But,  at 
last,  in  circumstances  so  unforeseen,  the  maiden 
of  the  Lord  had  been  revealed  to  him,  and  with 
the  revelation  a  great  impulse  of  metrical  ex- 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANGELICA      209 

pression  had  come  upon  the  young  poet.  All 
day  long  rhythms  and  fancies  were  effervescing 
within  him,  till  at  length  he  had  quite  a  pub- 
lishable  mass  of  verse  for  which,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  Angelica  must  be  counted  responsible. 
Of  these  he  was  busily  making  a  surrepti- 
tious fair  copy  one  morning,  when  old  Mr. 
Septimus  Lingard  suddenly  visited  his  seclu- 
sion, with  the  announcement  that  his  task  there 
was  at  an  end,  so  that  he  might  now  return  to 
his  regular  office.  Though,  of  course,  Henry 
had  realised  that  the  present  happy  arrange- 
ment could  not  go  on  for  ever,  the  news  brought 
temporary  desolation  to  the  two  young  lovers. 
For  four  months  their  days  had  been  spent 
within  a  few  yards  of  each  other ;  and  though 
Angel's  excursions  up  the  yard  to  Henry's 
desk  could  not  be  many,  or  long,  each  day, 
yet  each  was  conscious  that  the  other  was  near 
at  hand.  When  Angel  sang  at  her  housework, 
it  was  from  the  secure  sense  that  Henry  was 
close  by.  Their  separation  was  little  more  than 
that  of  a  husband  and  wife  working  in  different 
rooms  of  the  same  house.  But  now  their  meet- 
ings would  have  to  be  arranged  out  somewhere 
in  a  cold  world,  little  considerate  of  the  con- 
venience of  lovers,  and,  for  whole  days  of  warm 
14 


210  YOUNG  LIVES 

proximity,  they  would  have  to  exchange  occa- 
sional snatched  precarious  hours. 

Well,  the  only  thing  to  do  was  for  Henry  to 
work  away  at  their  dream  of  a  home  together 
—  home  together,  however  little,  just  four  walls 
to  love  each  other  in,  away  from  the  gaze  of 
prying  eyes,  none  daring  to  make  them  afraid. 
How  that  home  was  to  be  compassed  was  far 
from  clear  in  either  of  their  minds ;  but  vaguely 
it  was  felt  that  it  would  be  brought  about  by 
the  powerful  enchantments  of  literature.  Henry 
had  recently  had  one  of  Angel's  poems  accepted 
by  a  rather  good  magazine,  and  the  trance  of 
joy  in  which  for  fully  two  hours  he  had  sat 
gazing  at  that,  his  first,  proof-sheet,  was  hardly 
less  rapturous  than  that  into  which  he  had 
fallen  after  seeing  Angel  for  the  first  time, — 
so  dear  are  the  emblems  of  his  craft  to  the 
artist,  at  the  beginning,  and  still  at  the  end,  of 
his  career. 

So  Henry  had  to  finish  the  fair  copy  of  his 
poems  at  home  in  his  lodgings  of  an  evening, 
for  so  ambitious  a  private  enterprise  could  not 
be  carried  on  in  his  own  office  without  peril- 
ous interruptions.  He  was  making  the  copy 
with  especial  care,  in  the  form  of  a  real  book ; 
and  when  it  was  made,  he  daintily  bound  it  in 


THE   BOOK   OF   ANGELICA      211 

vellum  with  his  own  hands.  Then  he  wrapped 
it  lovingly  in  tissue  paper,  and  kept  it  by  him 
two  or  three  days,  in  readiness  for  Angel's 
birthday,  on  the  morning  of  which  day  he  hid 
it  in  a  box  of  flowers  and  sent  it  to  Angel.  The 
sympathetic  reader  can  imagine  her  delight,  as 
she  discovered  among  the  flowers  a  dainty 
little  white  volume,  bearing  the  titlepage,  "  The 
Book  of  Angelica,  by  Henry  Mesurier.  Tyre, 
1886.  Edition  limited  to  one  copy." 

Now  this  little  book  presently  began  to  enjoy 
a  certain  very  carefully  limited  circulation 
among  Angel's  friends.  Of  course  they  were 
not  allowed  to  take  it  away.  They  were  only 
allowed  to  look  at  it  now  and  again  for  a  few 
minutes,  Angel  anxiously  standing  by  to  see 
that  they  did  not  soil  her  treasure.  Sometimes 
Mr.  Flower  would  ask  Angel  to  show  it  to  one 
of  the  family  friends;  and  thus  one  evening 
it  came  beneath  the  eyes  of  a  little  Scotch 
printer  who  had  a  great  love  for  poetry  and 
some  taste  in  it. 

"  The  man 's  a  genius,"  he  said,  with  all  that 
authority  with  which  a  strong  Scotch  accent 
mysteriously  endows  the  humblest  Scot. 

"  The  man 's  a  genius,"  he  repeated ;  "  his 
poems  must  be  printed." 


212  YOUNG  LIVES 

Henry  had  already  found  that  this  was  easier 
said  than  done,  for  he  had  already  tried  several 
London  publishers  who  professed  their  willing- 
ness to  publish  —  at  his  expense.  This  little 
Scotch  printer,  however,  was  to  prove  more 
venturesome.  He  forthwith  communicated  a 
proposal  to  Henry  through  the  Flowers.  If 
Henry  would  provide  him  with  a  list  of  a  cer- 
tain number  of  friends  he  could  rely  on  for 
subscriptions,  he  would  take  the  risk  of  print- 
ing an  edition,  and  give  Henry  half  the  profits, 
—  a  proposal  as  generous  as  it  was  rash.  Angel 
communicated  the  offer  in  an  excited  little  let- 
ter, with  the  result  that  Mr.  Leith  and  Henry  met 
one  morning  in  the  bar-parlour  of  "  The  Green 
Man  Still,"  and  parted  an  hour  or  so  after  in  a 
high  state  of  friendship,  and  deeply  pledged 
together  to  a  mutual  adventure  of  three  hun- 
dred copies  of  a  book  to  be  called  "  The  Book 
of  Angelica,"  and  to  be  printed  in  so  dainty 
a  fashion  that  the  mere  outside  should  attract 
buyers. 

Mr.  Leith  worked  under  difficulties,  for  his 
business,  small  as  it  was,  was  much  saddled 
with  pecuniary  obligations  which  it  but  inade- 
quately supported.  His  printing  of  Henry's 
poems  was  really  a  work  of  sheer  idealism 


THE   BOOK   OF  ANGELICA      213 

which  none  but  a  Scotsman,  or  perhaps  an 
Irishman,  would  have  undertaken;  and  it  was 
a  work  that  might  at  any  moment  be  inter- 
rupted by  bailiffs,  empowered  to  carry  away 
the  presses  and  the  very  types  over  which 
Henry  loved  to  hang  in  his  spare  hours, 
trying  to  read  in  the  lines  of  mysteriously 
carved  metal,  his  "  Madrigal  to  Angelica  sing- 
ing," or  his  "  Sonnet  on  first  beholding  An- 
gelica." 

Then  Mr.  Leith  was  of  a  convivial  disposi- 
tion ;  and  Henry  and  he  must  have  spent  more 
hours  drinking  to  the  success  of  the  little  book 
than  would  have  sufficed  to  print  it  twice  over. 
However,  the  day  did  at  last  come  when  it  was 
a  living,  breathing  reality,  and  when  Angel 
and  Henry  sat  with  tears  of  joy  over  the  little 
new-born  "  Book  of  Angelica."  Was  it  not, 
they  told  each  other,  the  little  spirit-child  of 
their  love?  How  wonderful  it  all  was  !  How 
wonderful  their  future  was  going  to  be  ! 

"  What  does  it  feel  like?  "  said  Henry,  play- 
fully recalling  their  old  talk,  "  to  have  a  book 
written  all  about  one's  self?" 

"  It  is  to  feel  the  happiest  and  proudest  girl 
in  the  world." 

That  all  the  other  young  people  were  hardly 


214  YOUNG  LIVES 

less  happy  and  excited  about  the  little  book 
goes  without  saying.  Mike  spent  quite  a  large 
sum  in  copies,  and  for  a  while  employed  his 
luncheon-hour  in  asking  at  book-shops  with  a 
nonchalant  air,  as  though  he  had  barely  heard  of 
the  author,  if  they  sold  a  little  book  called  "The 
Book  of  Angelica."  Mrs.  Mesurier  seemed  to 
see  her  faith  in  her  boy  beginning  to  be  justi- 
fied ;  and  when  James  Mesurier  opened  his 
local  paper  one  morning,  and  found  a  long 
and  appreciative  article  on  a  certain  "  fellow- 
townsman,"  he  cut  it  out  to  paste  in  his  diary. 
Perhaps  the  lad  would  prove  right,  after  all. 


XXVIII 

WHAT    COMES  OF  PUBLISHING  A  BOOK 

IT  is  only  just  to  Tyre  to  acknowledge  that 
it  behaved  quite  sympathetically  towards  the 
young  poet  thus  discovered  in  its  midst.  Its 
newspapers  reviewed  him  with  marked  kind- 
ness,—  a  kindness  which  in  a  few  years'  time, 
when  he  had  long  since  grown  out  of  his  baby 
volume,  he  was  obliged  to  set  to  the  credit  of 
the  general  goodness  of  human  nature,  rather 
than  to  the  poetic  quality  of  his  own  verses. 
In  many  unexpected  quarters  also  he  met  with 
recognition  which,  if  not  always  intelligent, 
was  at  least  gratifying.  For  praise,  or  at  least 
some  form  of  notice,  is  breath  in  the  nostrils 
of  the  young  poet.  He  hungers  to  feel  that 
his  personality  counts  for  something,  though 
it  be  merely  to  anger  his  fellow-men.  It  was 
perhaps  no  very  culpable  vanity  on  his  part  to 
be  pleased  that  people  began  to  point  him  out 
in  the  streets,  and  whisper  that  that  was  the 


216  YOUNG  LIVES 

young  poet;  and  that  distant  acquaintances 
seemed  more  ready  to  smile  at  him  than  be- 
fore. Now  and  again  one  of  these  would  stop 
him  to  say  how  pleased  he  had  been  to  see  the 
kind  article  about  him  in  TJie  Tyrian  Daily 
Mail,  and  that  he  intended  to  buy  "  the  work" 
as  soon  as  possible.  Henry  smiled  to  himself, 
to  hear  his  frail  little  flower  of  a  volume 
spoken  of  as  a  "  work,"  as  though  it  had  been 
the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica;  and  he  rather 
wondered  what  that  would-be  purchaser  would 
make  of  it,  as  he  turned  over  pages  of  which 
so  large  a  proportion  was  reserved  for  a 
spotless  frame  of  margin.  No  doubt  he 
would  decide  that  the  margin  had  been  left 
for  the  purpose  of  making  notes,  —  making 
notes  on  those  abstruse  rose-petals  of  boyish 
song! 

Even  in  far-away  London,  —  which  was  as 
yet  merely  a  sounding  name  to  these  young 
people,  —  hard-worked  reviewers,  contempt- 
uously disposing  of  batches  of  new  poetry  in 
a  few  lines,  found  a  kind  word  or  two  to  say 
for  the  little  provincial  volume ;  and,  through 
one  agency  or  another,  Mr.  Leith,  within  six 
weeks  of  the  publication,  was  able  to  announce 
that  the  edition  was  exhausted  and  that  there 


PUBLISHING  A  BOOK  217 

was  something  like  forty  pounds  profit  to  share 
between  them. 

That  poetry  could  be  exchanged  for  real 
money,  Henry  had  heard,  but  had  never  hoped 
to  work  the  miracle  in  his  own  case.  It  was 
like  selling  moonlight,  or  Angelica's  smiles. 
Was  it  not,  indeed,  Angelica's  smiles  turned 
from  one  kind  of  gold  into  another?  One 
more  change  they  should  undergo,  and  then 
return  to  her  from  whom  they  had  come. 
From  minted  gold  of  the  realm  they  should 
change  into  the  gold  of  a  ring,  and  thus  Angel 
should  wear  upon  her  finger  the  ornament  of 
her  own  smiles.  Setting  aside  a  small  propor- 
tion of  his  gains  to  buy  Esther  and  Mike,  Dot 
and  Mat  and  his  mother,  a  little  memorial 
present  each,  he  then  spent  the  rest  on  Angel's 
ring.  Angel  pretended  to  scold  him  for  his 
extravagance ;  but,  as  no  woman  can  resist  a 
ring,  her  remonstrance  was  not  convincing, 
and  then,  as  Henry  said,  was  it  not  their  be- 
trothal ring,  and,  therefore,  one  of  the  legiti- 
mate expenses  of  love? 

Three  other  acknowledgments  his  poems 
brought  him.  The  first  was  a  delightful  letter 
from  Myrtilla  Williamson.  How  much  men  of 
talent  owe  to  the  letters  of  women  has  never 


2i8  YOUNG   LIVES 

been  sufficiently  acknowledged,  as  the  debt 
can  never  be  adequately  repaid.  Of  the  many 
branches  of  woman's  unselfishness,  this  is  per- 
haps the  most  important  to  the  world.  Always 
behind  the  flaming  renown  of  some  great  soldier, 
statesman,  or  poet,  there  is  a  woman's  hand,  or 
the  hands,  maybe,  of  many  women,  pouring, 
unseen,  the  nutritive  oil  of  praise. 

This  letter  Henry,  in  the  gladness  of  his 
heart,  ingenuously  showed  to  Angel,  with  the 
result  that  it  provoked  their  first  quarrel. 
With  the  charms  of  a  child,  Angel,  it  now 
appeared,  united  also  the  faults.  She  had  it 
in  her  to  be  bitterly  and  unreasonably  jealous. 
She  read  the  letter  coldly. 

"You  seem  very  proud  of  her  praise,"  she 
said;  "is  it  so  very  valuable?" 

"I  value  it  a  good  deal,  at  all  events," 
answered  Henry. 

"Oh,  I  see!"  retorted  Angel;  "I  suppose 
my  praise  is  nothing  to  hers." 

"Angel  dear,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"Oh,  nothing,  of  course;  but  I  'm  sure  you 
must  regret  caring  for  an  ignorant  girl  like 
me,  when  there  are  such  clever,  talented 
women  in  the  world  as  your  Mrs.  Williamson. 
I  hate  your  learned  women ! " 


PUBLISHING  A   BOOK  219 

"Angel,  I'm  surprised  you  can  talk  like 
that.  Because  we  love  each  other,  are  we  to 
have  no  other  friends  ? " 

"  Have  as  many  as  you  like,  dear.  Don't 
think  I  mind.  But  I  don't  want  to  see  their 
letters." 

"Very  well,  Angel,"  answered  Henry, 
quietly.  He  was  making  one  of  those  dis- 
coveries of  temperament  which  have  to  be 
made,  and  have  to  be  accepted,  in  all  close 
relationships.  This  was  evidently  one  of 
Angel's  faults.  He  must  try  to  help  her 
with  it,  as  he  must  try  and  let  her  help  him 
with  his. 

The  second  was  a  letter,  forwarded  care  of 
his  printer,  by  one  of  the  London  reviews 
which  had  noticed  his  verses.  It  was  from  a 
rising  young  London  publisher  who,  it  appeared 
from  an  envelope  enclosed,  had  already  tried  to 
reach  him  direct  at  Tyre.  "  Henry  Mesurier, 
Esqre,  Author  of  'The  Book  of  Angelica,' 
Tyre,"  the  address  had  run,  but  the  post- 
office  of  Tyre  had  returned  it  to  the  sender, 
with  the  words  "  Not  known  "  officially  stamped 
upon  it. 

He  was  as  yet  "not  known,"  even  in  Tyre! 
"In  another  five  years  he  shall  try  again," 


220  YOUNG  LIVES 

said  Henry,  savagely,  to  himself,  "and  we 
shall  see  whether  it  will  be  '  not  known ' 
then  ! " 

The  letter  expressed  the  writer's  pleasure 
in  the  extracts  he  had  seen  from  Mr.  Mesurier's 
book,  and  hoped  that  when  his  next  book  was 
ready,  he  would  give  the  writer  an  opportu- 
nity of  publishing  it.  Fortune  was  begin- 
ning already  to  smile. 

But  the  third  acknowledgment  was  some- 
thing more  like  a  frown,  and  was,  at  all 
events,  by  far  the  most  momentous  outcome 
of  Henry's  first  publication.  One  morning, 
soon  after  Mr.  Leith  had  paid  over  to  him 
his  twenty  pounds  profit,  he  found  himself 
unexpectedly  requested  to  step  into  "the 
private  office."  There,  at  Mr.  Lingard's 
table,  he  found  the  three  partners  seated  in 
solemn  conclave,  as  for  a  court-martial.  Mr. 
Lingard,  as  senior  partner,  was  the  spokes- 
man. 

"Mr.  Mesurier,"  he  began,  "the  firm  has 
been  having  a  very  serious  consultation  in 
regard  to  you,  and  has  been  obliged,  very 
reluctantly,  I  would  have  you  believe,  to 
come  to  a  painful  conclusion.  We  gladly 
acknowledge  that  during  the  last  few  months 


PUBLISHING  A  BOOK  221 

your  work  has  given  us  more  satisfaction  than 
at  one  time  we  expected  it  to  give.  But, 
unfortunately,  that  is  not  all.  Your  attention 
to  your  duties,  we  admit,  has  been  very  satis- 
factory. It  is  not  a  sin  of  omission,  but  one 
of  commission,  of  which  we  have  to  complain. 
What  we  have  to  complain  of  as  business  men 
is  a  matter  which  perhaps  you  will  say  does 
not  concern  us,  though  on  that  point  we  must 
respectfully  differ  from  you.  Mr.  Mesurier, 
you  have  recently  published  a  book." 

Henry  drew  himself  up  haughtily.  Surely 
that  was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 

"It  is  quite  a  pretty  little  book,"  continued 
Mr.  Lingard,  with  one  of  his  grim  smiles. 
"  It  contains  some  quite  pretty  verses.  Oh, 
yes,  I  have  seen  it,"  and  Henry  noticed  a 
copy  of  the  offending  little  volume  lying, 
like  a  rose,  among  some  legal  papers  at  Mr. 
Lingard's  left  hand;  "but  its  excellence  as 
poetry  is  not  to  the  point  here.  Our  difficulty 
is  that  you  are  now  branded  so  unmistakably 
as  a  poet,  that  it  is  no  use  our  any  longer 
pretending  to  our  clients  that  you  are  a  clerk. 
So  long  as  you  were  only  suspected  of  being 
a  poet,"  and  the  old  man  smiled  again,  "it 
did  not  so  much  matter;  but  now  that  all 


222  YOUNG   LIVES 

Tyre  knows  you,  by  your  own  act  and  deed, 
as  a  poet,  the  case  is  different.  We  can  no 
longer,  without  risk  of  losing  confidence  with 
our  clients,  send  an  acknowledged  poet  to 
inspect  their  books  —  though,  personally,  we 
may  have  every  faith  in  your  capacity.  No 
doubt  they  will  be  glad  enough  to  buy  your 
books  in  the  future ;  but  they  will  be  nervous 
of  trusting  you  with  theirs  at  the  moment." 
And  the  old  man  laughed  heartily  at  his  own 
humour. 

"  You  mean,  then,  sir,  that  you  will  have 
no  further  need  for  my  services  ?  "  said  Henry, 
looking  somewhat  pale;  for  it  is  one  thing 
to  hate  the  means  of  one's  livelihood,  and 
another  to  exchange  it  for  none. 

"  I  'm  afraid,  my  dear  lad,  that  that  is  what 
it  comes  to.  We  are,  I  hope  you  will  be- 
lieve, exceedingly  sorry  to  come  to  such  a 
conclusion,  both  for  our  own  sakes  and  yours, 
as  well  as  that  of  your  father,  —  who  is  an 
old  and  valued  friend  of  ours;  but  we  are 
able  to  see  no  other  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty. Of  course,  you  will  not  leave  us 
this  minute;  but  take  what  time  you  need 
to  look  round  and  arrange  your  future  plans ; 
and  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  we  shall  part 


PUBLISHING   A   BOOK  223 

from  you  as  good  friends  and  sincere  well- 
wishers." 

The  old  man  held  out  his  hand,  and  Henry 
took  it,  with  a  grateful  sense  of  the  friendly 
manner  in  which  Mr.  Lingard  had  performed 
a  painful  task,  and  a  certain  recognition  that, 
after  all,  a  poet  must  be  something  of  a 
nuisance  to  business-men. 

When  he  returned  to  his  desk,  he  sat  for  a 
long  time  thoughtful,  divided  in  mind  between 
exultation  that  he  was  soon  to  be  free  to  take 
the  adventurous  highway  of  literature,  and 
anxiety  as  to  where  in  a  month's  time  his 
preliminary  meals  were  to  come  from. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  main  thing  was  to  be 
free  of  this  servitude.  Out  of  freedom  all 
things  might  be  hoped. 

Still,  as  Henry  looked  round  at  the  familiar 
faces  of  his  fellow-clerks,  and  realised  that 
in  a  month's  time  his  comradeship  with  them 
would  be  at  an  end,  he  was  surprised  to  feel  a 
certain  pang  of  separation.  Mere  custom  has 
so  great  a  part  in  our  affections,  that  though 
a  routine  may  have  been  dull  and  distasteful, 
if  it  has  any  extenuating  circumstances  at  all, 
we  change  it  with  a  certain  irrational  regret. 
After  all,  his  office-life  was  associated  with 


224  YOUNG   LIVES 

much  contraband  merriment;  and,  uncon- 
sciously, his  associates  had  taken  a  valuable 
part  in  his  training,  humanised  him  in  cer- 
tain directions,  as  he  had  humanised  them  in 
others.  They  had  saved  him  from  dilettante- 
ism,  and  whatever  he  wrote  in  future  would 
owe  something  warm  and  kindly  to  the  years 
he  had  spent  with  them. 

His  very  desk  took  on  a  pathetic  expres- 
sion, as  of  a  place  that  was  so  soon  to  know 
him  no  more  for  ever;  and  Mr.  Smith,  wrang- 
ling over  wet-traps  and  cesspools  at  the 
counter,  just  as  on  the  first  day  he  had  heard 
him,  almost  moved  him  to  tears.  Perhaps  in 
ten  years'  time,  were  he  to  come  back,  he 
would  find  him  still  at  his  post,  fervidly 
engaged  in  the  same  altercations,  with  only 
a  little  additional  greyness  at  the  temples  to 
mark  the  lapse  of  time. 

And  Jenkins  would  still  be  sitting  in  the 
little  screened-off  cupboard,  with  "cashier" 
painted  on  the  glass  window.  As  three 
o'clock  approached,  he  would  still  be  heard 
loudly  counting  his  cash  and  shovelling  the 
gold  into  wash-leather  bags,  and  the  silver 
into  little  paper-bags  marked  ,£5  apiece,  in  a 
wild  rush  to  reach  the  bank  before  it  closed. 


PUBLISHING  A   BOOK  225 

And  would  the  same  good  fellows,  a  little 
more  serious,  because  long  since  married,  be 
cracking  jokes  and  loafing  near  the  fire-guard, 
in  some  rare  safe  hour  of  the  afternoon  when 
all  the  partners  were  out,  to  make  a  spring 
for  the  desks,  as  the  carefully  learnt  tread 
of  one  or  another  of  those  partners  followed 
the  opening  of  the  front  door. 

The  very  work  that  he  hated  seemed  to 
wear  an  unwonted  look  of  tenderness.  Who 
would  keep  the  books  he  had  kept  —  with 
something  of  his  father's  neatness ;  who  would 
look  after  the  accounts  of  "  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Salthouse,"  or  take  charge  of  "Ex-  James 
Shuttleworth,  Esqre  "  ? 

Of  course,  it  was  absurd  —  absurd,  perhaps, 
just  because  it  was  human.  For  was  he  not 
going  to  be  free,  free  to  fulfil  his  dreams,  free 
to  follow  those  voices  that  had  so  often  called 
him  from  beyond  the  sunset?  Soon  he  would 
be  able  to  cry  out  to  them,  with  literal  truth, 
"I  am  yours,  yours  —  all  yours!"  And  in 
those  ten  years  which  were  to  pass  so  inva- 
riably for  Mr.  Smith,  and  for  Jenkins  and 
the  rest,  what  various  and  dazzling  changes 
might  be,  must  be,  in  store  for  him.  Long 
before  the  end  of  them  he  must  have  written 
15 


226  YOUNG   LIVES 

masterpieces  and  become  famous,  and  Angel 
and  he  be  long  settled  together  in  their  para- 
dise of  home. 

Henry  was  pleased  to  find  that  his  chums 
were  to  miss  him  no  less  than  he  was  to  miss 
them.  As  an  unofficial  master  of  their  pale 
revels,  his  place  would  not  be  easy  to  fill ; 
and  he  was  much  touched,  when,  a  day  or  two 
before  the  end  of  the  month,  which  was  the 
time  mutually  agreed  upon  for  Henry  to  look 
round,  they  intimated  their  desire  to  give  a 
little  dinner  in  his  honour  at  "  The  Jovial 
Clerks"  tavern. 

Henry  was  nothing  loth,  and  the  evening 
came  and  went  with  no  little  emotion  and  no 
little  wine,  on  either  side.  He  had  bidden 
good-bye  to  his  employers  in  the  afternoon, 
and  Mr.  Lingard  had  shaken  his  hand,  and 
admonished  him  as  to  his  future  with  some- 
thing of  paternal  affection. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  dinner,  Bob  Cherry, 
who  acted  as  chairman,  rose,  with  an  unac- 
customed blush  upon  his  cheek,  to  propose 
the  toast  of  the  evening.  They  had  had  the 
honour  and  pleasure,  he  said,  to  be  associated 
for  several  years  past  with  a  gentleman  to 
whom  that  evening  they  were  to  say  good- 


PUBLISHING   A  BOOK  227 

bye.  No  better  fellow  had  ever  graced  the 
offices  of  Lingard  and  Fields,  and  his  would 
be  a  real  loss  to  the  gaiety  of  their  little 
world.  They  understood  that  he  was  a  poet ; 
and  indeed  had  he  not  already  published  a 
charming  volume  with  which  they  were  all 
acquainted  !  —  still  this  made  no  difference 
to  them.  Certain  high  powers  might  object, 
but  they  liked  him  none  the  less  ;  and  whether 
he  was  a  poet  or  not,  he  was  certainly  a  jolly 
good  fellow,  and  wherever  his  new  career 
might  take  him,  the  good  wishes  of  his  old 
chums  would  certainly  follow  him.  The 
chairman  concluded  his  speech  by  requesting 
his  acceptance  of  a  copy  of  the  "Works  of 
Lord  Macaulay,"  as  a  small  remembrance  of 
the  days  they  had  spent  together. 

The  toast  having  been  seconded  and  drunk 
with  resounding  cordiality,  Henry  responded 
in  a  speech  of  mingled  playfulness  and  emo- 
tion, assuring  them,  on  his  part,  that  though 
they  might  not  be  poets,  he  thought  no  worse 
of  them  for  that,  but  should  always  remem- 
ber them  as  the  best  fellows  he  had  ever 
known.  The  talk  then  became  general,  and 
tender  with  reminiscence.  After  all,  what 
a  lot  of  pleasant  things  those  hard  years 


228  YOUNG  LIVES 

had  given  them  to  remember !  So  they  kept 
the  evening  going,  and  it  was  not  till  an 
early  hour  of  the  following  day  that  this  im- 
portant volume  of  Henry's  life  was  finally 
closed. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

MIKE'S   TURN   TO   MOVE 

WHILE  Henry  had  been  busily  engaged  in 
winning  Angelica  and  writing  and  printing 
his  little  book,  Mike's  fortunes  had  not  been 
idle.  Meanwhile,  the  Sothern  Dramatic  Club 
had  given  two  more  performances,  in  which 
his  parts  had  been  considerable,  and  been 
played  by  him  with  such  success  as  to  make 
the  former  pieman's  apprentice  one  of  the 
chief  members  of  the  club.  Mike  and  his 
friends  therefore  became  more  and  more  eager 
for  him  to  try  his  talents  on  the  great  stage. 
But  this  was  an  experiment  not  so  easy  to 
make. 

However  unknown  a  writer  may  be,  he  can 
still  at  least  write  his  book  in  his  obscurity, 
and,  when  done,  bring  it  to  market,  with  a 
reasonable  hope  of  its  finding  a  publisher; 
moreover,  though  he  may  remain  for  years 
unappreciated,  his  writings  still  go  on  fight- 


230  YOUNG   LIVES 

ing  for  him  till  his  due  recognition  is  won. 
He  has  not  to  find  his  publisher  before  he 
begins  to  write.  Yet  it  is  actually  such  a 
disability  under  which  the  unproved  and 
often  the  proved  actor  must  labour.  Unless 
some  one  engages  him  to  act,  and  provides  an 
audience  for  him,  he  has  no  opportunity  of 
showing  his  powers.  And  such  opportunities 
are  difficult  to  find,  unless  you  are  a  dis- 
solute young  lord,  or  belong  to  one  of  the 
traditional  theatrical  families,  — whose  mem- 
bers are  brought  up  to  the  stage,  as  the  sons 
of  a  lawyer  are  brought  up  to  law.  For  the 
avenues  to  the  stage  are  blocked  by  perhaps 
more  frivolous  incompetents  than  any  other 
profession.  Any  idle  girl  with  good  looks, 
and  any  idle  gentleman  with  something  of  a 
good  carriage,  deem  themselves  qualified  for 
one  of  the  most  arduous  of  the  arts. 

Mike's  plan  had  been  to  try  every  consid- 
erable actor  that  came  to  Tyre,  who  might 
possibly  have  a  vacant  place  in  his  company; 
but  he  had  tried  many  in  vain.  While  one 
or  two  were  unable  to  see  him  at  all,  most  of 
them  treated  him  with  a  kindness  remarkable 
in  men  daily  besieged  by  the  innumerable 
hopeless.  They  gave  him  good  advice ;  they 


MIKE'S  TURN   TO   MOVE        231 

wished  him  well ;  but  already  they  had  long 
lists  of  experienced  applicants  waiting  their 
turn  for  the  coveted  vacancy.  At  last,  how- 
ever, there  came  to  Tyre  a  famous  romantic 
actor  who  was  said  to  be  more  sympathetic 
towards  the  youthful  aspirant  than  the  other 
heads  of  his  profession,  and  as,  too,  he  was 
rumoured  to  be  vulnerable  on  the  side  of 
literature,  Mike  and  Henry  agreed  to  make  a 
joint  attack  upon  him.  Mike  should  write  a 
brief  note  asking  for  an  interview,  and  Henry 
should  follow  it  up  with  another  letter  to  the 
same  effect,  and  at  the  same  time  send  him  a 
copy  of  "The  Book  of  Angelica." 

The  plan  was  carried  out.  Both  letters  and 
the  book  were  sent,  and  the  young  men 
awaited  with  impatience  the  result.  Henry 
had  adopted  a  very  lofty  tone.  "  In  granting 
my  friend  an  interview,"  he  had  said,  "you 
may  be  giving  his  first  chance  to  an  actor  of 
genius.  Of  course  you  may  not;  but  at  least 
you  will  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  giving 
to  possible  genius  that  benefit  of  the  doubt 
which  we  have  a  right  to  expect  from  the 

creator  of ,"  and  he  named  one  of  the 

actor's  most  famous  roles. 

A  cordial  answer  came  by  return,   enclos- 


232  YOUNG  LIVES 

ing  two  stalls  for  the  following  evening, 
when,  said  the  great  actor,  he  would  be  glad 
to  see  Mr.  Laflin  during  or  after  the  perform- 
ance. The  two  young  men  were  in  their 
places  as  the  curtain  rose,  and  it  goes  with- 
out saying  that  their  enthusiasm  was  un- 
equalled in  the  audience.  Between  the  third 
and  fourth  acts  there  was  a  considerable  inter- 
val, and  early  in  the  performance  it  had  been 
notified  to  Mike  that  the  great  actor  would 
see  him  then.  So  when  the  time  came,  with 
a  whispered  "  good  luck  "  from  Henry,  he  left 
his  place  and  was  led  through  a  little  myste- 
rious iron  door  at  the  back  of  the  boxes,  on 
to  the  stage  and  into  the  great  man's  dressing- 
room.  Opening  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness 
at  one  side  of  the  stage,  it  was  more  like  a 
brilliantly  lighted  cave  hung  with  mirrors 
than  a  room.  Mirrors  and  lights  and  laurel 
wreaths  with  cards  attached,  and  many  photo- 
graphs with  huge  signatures  scrawled  across 
them,  and  a  magnificent  being  reading  a 
book,  while  his  dresser  laced  up  some  high 
boots  he  was  to  wear  in  the  following  act, 
• — 'made  Mike's  first  impression.  Then  the 
magnificent  being  looked  up  with  a  charming 
smile. 


MIKE'S   TURN   TO    MOVE       233 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Laflin.  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you.  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my 
rising." 

He  said  "  Mr.  Laflin "  with  a  captivating 
familiarity  of  intonation,  as  though  Mike  was 
something  between  an  old  friend  and  a  dis- 
tinguished stranger. 

"  So  you  are  thinking  of  joining  our  pro- 
fession. I  hope  you  liked  the  performance. 
I  saw  you  in  front,  or  at  least  I  thought  it 
was  you.  And  your  friend?  I  hope  he  will 
come  and  see  me  some  other  time.  I  have 
been  delighted  with  his  poems." 

There  is  something  dazzling  and  disconcert- 
ing to  an  average  layman  about  an  actor's 
dressing-room,  even  though  the  dressing- 
room  be  that  of  an  intimate  friend.  He  feels 
like  a  being  on  the  confines  of  two  worlds 
and  belonging  to  neither,  awkwardly  sus- 
pended 'twixt  fact  and  fancy.  The  actor  for 
a  while  has  laid  aside  his  part  and  forgotten 
his  wig  and  his  make-up.  As  he  talks  to 
you,  he  is  thinking  of  himself  merely  as  a 
private  individual;  whereas  his  visitor  cannot 
forget  that  in  appearance  he  is  a  king,  or  an 
eighteenth-century  dandy,  or — though  you 
know  him  well  enough  as  a  clean-shaven 


234  YOUNG   LIVES 

young  man  of  thirty  —  a  bowed  and  wrinkled 
greybeard.  The  visitor's  voice  rings  thin 
and  hestitating.  It  cannot  strike  the  right 
pitch,  and  generally  he  does  himself  no  sort 
of  justice. 

Perhaps,  however,  it  was  because  Mike  had 
been  born  for  this  world  in  which  now  for  the 
first  time  he  found  himself,  that  he  suffered 
from  none  of  this  embarrassment ;  perhaps, 
too,  it  was  some  half-conscious  instinct  of 
his  own  gifts  that  made  him  quite  self-con- 
tained in  the  presence  of  acknowledged  dis- 
tinction, so  self-contained  that  you  might 
have  thought  he  had  no  reverence.  As  he 
had  passed  across  the  stage,  he  had  eyed 
that  mysterious  behind-the-scenes  rather  with 
the  eye  of  a  future  stage-manager,  than  of  a 
youth  all  whose  dreams  converged  at  this 
point,  and  at  this  moment. 

One  touch  of  the  poetry  of  contrast  caught 
his  eye,  of  which  custom  would  probably 
have  made  him  unobservant.  In  an  alcove 
of  the  stage,  a  "scene-dock,"  as  Mike  knew 
already  to  call  it,  a  beautiful  spirit  in  gauze 
and  tights  was  silently  rehearsing  to  herself  a 
dance  which  she  had  to  perform  in  the  next 
act.  Softly  and  silently  she  danced,  absorbed 


MIKE'S  TURN   TO    MOVE         235 

in  the  evolutions  of  her  lithe  young  body, 
paying  as  little  heed  to  the  rough  stage- 
hands who  hurried  scenery  about  her  on  every 
side,  as  those  hardened  stage-hands  paid  to 
her  dancing.  Henry  or  Ned  would  probably 
have  fallen  madly  in  love  with  her  on  the 
spot.  To  Mike,  she  was  but  a  part  of  the 
economy  of  the  stage;  and  had  she  been 
Cleopatra  herself,  eyes  filled  to  overflowing 
with  the  beauty  of  Esther  would  have  taken 
no  more  intimate  note  of  her.  So,  it  is  said, 
painters  and  sculptors  regard  their  models 
with  cold,  artistic  eyes. 

This  self-possession  enabled  Mike  to  show 
to  the  best  advantage ;  and  while  they  talked, 
the  great  actor,  with  an  eye  accustomed  to 
read  faces,  soon  made  up  his  mind  about 
him. 

"  I  believe  you  and  your  friend  are  right, 
Mr.  Laflin,"  he  said.  "I  am  much  mistaken 
if  you  are  not  a  born  actor.  But  if  you  are 
that,  you  will  not  need  to  be  told  that  the 
way  is  long  and  difficult,  nor  will  you  mind 
that  it  is  so.  Every  true  artist  rather  loves 
than  fears  the  drudgery  of  his  art.  It  is  one 
of  the  tests  of  his  being  an  artist.  Art  is 
undoubtedly  the  pleasantest  of  all  work;  but 


236  YOUNG   LIVES 

it  is  work  for  all  that,  and  none  of  the  easiest. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  pleasantest  because  it  is  the 
hardest.  So  if  you  really  want  to  be  an 
artist,  you  won't  object  to  beginning  your 
journey  to  the  top  right  away  at  the  bottom." 

"Anywhere  at  all,  sir,"  said  Mike,  his 
heart  beating  at  this  hint  of  what  was 
coming. 

"Well,  in  that  case,"  continued  the  other, 
"I  can  perhaps  do  something,  though  a  very 
little,  for  you." 

Mike  eagerly  murmured  his  gratitude. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  I  have  no  vacancy  in  my 
own  company  at  present;  but  would  you  be 
willing  to  take  a  part  in  my  Christmas  panto- 
mime? I  may  say  that  I  myself  began  life  as 
harlequin." 

"  I  will  gladly  take  anything  you  can  offer 
me,"  said  Mike. 

"Shall  we  call  it  settled  then?  But  I 
sha'n't  need  you  for  another  four  months. 
Meanwhile  I  will  have  a  contract  made  out 
and  sent  to  you  —  " 

"Curtain  rising  for  fourth  act,  sir,"  cried 
the  call-boy,  putting  his  head  in  at  the  door 
at  that  moment. 

"You   see   I  shall  have  to  say  good-bye," 


MIKE'S  TURN   TO   MOVE        237 

said  the  good-natured  manager,  rising  and 
moving  towards  the  door;  "but  I  shall  look 
forward  to  seeing  you  in  October.  My  good 
wishes  to  your  friend;"  and  so  the  happiest 
person  in  that  theatre  slipped  back  to  his  seat 
by  the  side  of  a  friend  who  was  surely  as 
happy  at  his  good  news  as  though  it  had 
been  his  own. 

Meanwhile  Esther  had  been  counting  the 
hours  till  ten,  when  she  made  a  pretence  of 
going  to  bed  with  the  rest.  But  there  was  no 
sleep  for  her  till  she  had  heard  Mike's  news. 
Her  bedroom  looked  out  from  the  top  of  the 
house  into  the  front  garden,  and  she  had 
arranged  to  have  a  lamp  burning  at  the 
window,  so  that  Mike,  on  his  way  home, 
should  understand  that  all  was  safe  for  a 
snatched  five  minutes'  talk  in  the  porch. 
She  sat  trying  to  read  till  about  midnight, 
when  through  her  half-opened  windows  came 
the  soft  whistle  she  had  been  waiting  for. 
Turning  down  the  lamp  to  show  that  she  had 
heard,  she  stole  down  through  the  quiet  house 
and  cautiously  opened  the  front  door,  fastened, 
it  seemed,  with  a  hundred  bolts  and  chains. 

"Is  that  you,  Mike?" 

For   answer  two    arms,    which    she  didn't 


238  YOUNG  LIVES 

mistake  for  a  burglar's,   were  thrown  round 

her. 

"Esther,  I  've  found  my  million  pounds." 
"Oh,   Mike!     He's    really  going   to   help 

you?" 

And  here  there  is  no  further  necessity  for 

eaves-dropping.      All    persons    except    Mike 

and  Esther  will  please  leave  the  porch. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

UNCIIARTERED   FREEDOM 

ON  the  morning  after  the  dinner  with  which 
he  bade  farewell  to  Messrs.  Lingard  and 
Fields,  Henry  awoke  at  his  usual  hour  to  a 
very  unusual  feeling.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  could  stay  in  bed  as  long  as  he 
pleased. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  Ned  Hazell 
lay  sleeping  the  deep  sleep  of  the  unpunctual 
clerk ;  and  Henry,  when  he  had  for  a  moment 
or  two  dwelt  upon  his  own  happiness,  took  a 
malicious  joy  in  arousing  him. 

"Ned,"  he  shouted,  "get  up!  You'll  be 
late  for  the  office." 

Ned  gave  out  a  deep  sound,  something 
between  a  snore,  a  moan,  and  an  imprecation. 

"  Ned  !  "  his  tormentor  persisted,  drawing 
the  clothes  warmly  round  him,  in  a  luxury  of 
indifference  to  the  time  of  day. 


240  YOUNG   LIVES 

Ned  presently  began  rubbing  his  head 
vigorously,  which  was  one  of  his  preliminaries 
of  awakening,  and  then  mournfully  raised 
himself  in  bed,  a  pillar  of  somnolence. 

"  You  might  let  a  fellow  have  his  sleep 
out,"  he  said;  "why  don't  you  get  up  your- 
self?—  oh,  I  remember,  you're  a  literary 
gentleman  from  to-day.  That 's  why  you  're 
so  mighty  ready  to  root  me  out,"  and  he 
aimed  a  pillow  at  Henry's  bed  in  derision. 

Yes,  Henry  was  free,  an  independent  gen- 
tleman of  time  and  space.  The  clock  might 
strike  itself  hoarse,  yet,  if  he  wished,  he 
might  go  on  staying  in  bed.  He  was  free! 
His  late  taskmasters  had  no  jurisdiction  here. 
It  would  even  be  in  his  power  here  to  order 
Mr.  Fields  out  of  the  room,  and,  if  he  refused, 
forcibly  to  eject  him  into  the  street.  Why 
did  n't  Mr.  Fields  appear  to  gratify  him  in 
this  matter? 

So  he  indulged  his  imagination,  while  Ned 
dressed  in  haste,  with  the  fear  of  the  tyrant 
evident  upon  him.  Poor  fellow,  he  would 
have  to  choose  between  two  cups  of  coffee 
and  two  eggs  and  five  minutes  late !  Prob- 
ably he  would  split  the  difference,  bolt  one 
cup  of  coffee  and  one  egg,  and  arrive  two  and 


UNCHARTERED   FREEDOM      241 

a  half  minutes  late.  Henry  watched  him 
with  compassion ;  and  when  he  had  gone  his 
ways,  himself  rose  languidly  and  dressed 
indolently,  as  with  the  aid  of  an  invisible 
valet.  At  length  he  sauntered  down  to 
breakfast,  and  sent  out  for  a  morning  paper, 
which  he  on  no  account  ever  read.  He  could 
imagine  no  more  insulting  waste  of  time. 
He  looked  it  through,  but  found  no  reference 
to  the  real  significance  of  the  day. 

Breakfast  over,  he  wondered  what  he  should 
do  with  himself,  how  he  should  spend  the 
day.  His  clear  duty  was  to  begin  being  a 
great  man  on  the  spot,  and  work  at  being  a 
great  man  every  day  punctually  from  nine  till 
six.  But  where  should  he  begin?  Should  he 
sit  down  in  a  business-like  way  and  begin 
his  long  romantic  poem,  or  should  he  write 
an  essay,  or  again  should  he  make  a  start  on 
his  novel  ? 

Romantic  poems,  he  felt,  however,  are  only 
well  begun  on  special  days  not  easy  to  define; 
essays  are  only  written  on  days  when  we  have 
determined  to  be  idle,  —  and  this,  after  the 
opening  flirtation  with  indolence,  must  be  a 
busy  day,  —  and  it  is  not  every  day  that  one 
can  begin  a  novel.  He  might  arrange  his 
16 


242  YOUNG  LIVES 

books,  but  really  they  were  very  well  arranged 
already.  Or  suppose  he  went  out  for  a  walk. 
Walking  quickened  the  brain.  He  might  go 
and  look  in  at  the  Art  Gallery,  where  he 
hadn't  been  fora  long  while,  and  see  the  new 
picture  the  morning  paper  was  talking  about. 
It  was  by  a  painter  whose  poems  he  already 
knew  and  loved.  That  might  inspire  him. 
So,  by  an  accident  of  idleness,  he  presently 
found  himself  standing  rapt  before  the  most 
wonderful  picture  he  had  ever  seen,  —  a 
picture  to  see  which,  he  said  to  himself,  men 
would  make  pilgrimages  to  Tyre,  when  Tyre 
was  a  moss-grown,  ruinous  seaport,  from 
which  the  traffic  of  the  world  had  long  since 
passed  away. 

Henry  at  this  time  had  visited  none  of  the 
great  galleries  and,  except  in  a  few  reproduc- 
tions, knew  nothing  of  the  great  Italian 
masters.  Therefore  to  him  this  picture  was 
Italy,  the  Renaissance,  and  Catholicism,  all 
concentrated  into  one  enthralling  canvas.  But 
it  was  something  greater  than  that.  It  was 
the  terrible  meeting  of  Youth  and  Love  and 
Death  in  one  tremendous  moment  of  infinite 
loss.  Infinite  passion  and  infinite  loss  were 
here  pictured,  in  a  medium  which  combined 


UNCHARTERED   FREEDOM      243 

all  that  was  spiritual  and  all  that  was  sensual 
in  a  harmony  of  beauty  that  was  in  the  same 
moment  delirium  and  peace.  The  irresistible 
cry  of  the  colour  to  the  senses,  the  spheral 
call  of  the  theme  and  its  agony  to  the  soul. 
Beatrice  dead,  and  Dante  taken  in  a  dream 
across  the  strewn  poppies  of  her  death- 
chamber,  to  look  his  last  on  the  sleeping  face, 
yet  a  little  smiling  in  the  after-glow  of  life; 
her  soul  already  carried  by  angels  far  over 
the  curved  and  fluted  roofs  of  the  Florentine 
houses,  on  its  way  to  Paradise.  Little  Bea- 
trice! Not  till  they  meet  again  in  Paradise 
shall  he  see  again  that  holy  face.  In  a  dream 
of  loss  he  gazes  upon  her,  as  the  angels  lift 
up  the  flower-garnished  sheet ;  and  not  only 
her  face,  but  every  detail  of  that  room  of 
death  is  etched  in  tears  upon  his  eyes,  — the 
distant  winding  stair,  the  pallid  death-lamps, 
the  intruding  light  of  day.  All  Passion  and 
all  Loss,  all  Youth,  all  Love,  and  all  Death 
met  together  in  an  everlasting  requiem  of 
tragic  colour. 

Henry  sat  long  before  this  picture,  envel- 
oped, as  it  were,  in  its  rich  gloom,  as  the 
painted  profundity  of  a  church  absorbs  one 
in  its  depths.  And  with  the  impression  of 


244  YOUNG   LIVES 

its  solemn  beauty  was  blent  a  despairing 
awe  of  the  artist  who,  of  a  little  coloured 
earth,  had  created  such  a  masterpiece  of  vital- 
ity, thrown  on  to  a  thin  screen  of  canvas  so 
enduringly  palpable,  so  sumptuous,  and  so 
poignantly  dominating  a  reflection  of  his 
visions.  What  a  passionate  energy  of  beauty 
must  have  been  in  this  man's  soul;  what  a 
constant  fury  of  meditation  upon  things 
divine ! 

When  Henry  came  back  to  himself,  his 
first  thought  was  to  share  it  with  Angel. 
Little  soul,  how  her  face  would  flame,  how 
her  body  would  tremble  with  the  wonder  of 
it!  In  the  minutiae,  the  technicalities  of 
appreciation,  Angel,  like  Henry  himself, 
might  be  lacking;  but  in  the  motive  fervour 
of  appreciation,  who  was  like  her!  It  was 
almost  painful  to  see  the  joy  which  certain 
simple  wonders  gave  her.  Anything  intense 
or  prodigal  in  nature,  any  splendidly  fluent 
outpouring  of  the  elements,  — the  fierce  life  of 
streaming  fire,  water  in  gliding  or  tumultuous 
masses,  the  vivid  gold  of  crocus  and  daffodil 
spouting  up  through  the  earth  in  spring,  the 
exquisite  liquidity  of  a  bird  singing,  — these, 
as  with  all  elemental  poetic  natures,  gave  her 


UNCHARTERED   FREEDOM      245 

the  same  keen  joy  which  we  fable  for  those 
who,  in  the  intense  morning  of  the  world,  first 
heard  them;  fable,  indeed,  for  why  should 
we  suppose  that  because  ears  deaf  a  thousand 
years  heard  the  nightingale  too,  it  should 
therefore  be  less  new  for  those  who  to-night 
hear  it  for  the  first  time  ?  Rather  shall  it  be 
more  than  less  for  us,  by  the  memories  trans- 
mitted in  our  blood  from  all  the  generations 
who  before  have  listened  and  gone  their  way. 
So  Henry  sought  out  Angel,  and  they  both 
stood  in  front  of  the  great  picture  for  a  long 
while  without  a  word.  Presently  Angel  put 
the  feeling  of  both  of  them  into  a  single 
phrase,  — 

"Henry,  dear,  we  have  found  our  church." 
And  indeed  for  many  months  henceforth 
this  picture  was  to  be  their  altar,  their  place 
of  prayer.  Often  hereafter  when  their  hopes 
were  overcast,  or  life  grew  mean  with  little 
cares,  they  would  slip,  singly,  or  together, 
into  that  gallery,  and  — • 

"  let  the  beauty  of  Eternity 
Smooth  from  their  brows  the  little  frets  of  time." 

Thus    Henry's    first    clay   of    freedom   had 
begun  auspiciously  with  the  unexpected  dis- 


246  YOUNG  LIVES 

covery  of  an  inalienable  possession  of  beauty. 
Yet  the  little  cares  were  not  far  off,  waiting 
their  time;  and  that  night,  Henry  lay  long 
awake  asking  himself  what  he  was  going  to 
do  ?  Whence  was  to  come  the  material  gold 
and  silver  by  which  this  impetuous  spirit  was 
to  be  sustained?  A  sum  not  exceeding  five 
pounds  represented  his  accumulated  resources, 
and  they  would  not  last  longer  than  —  five 
pounds.  He  needed  little,  but  that  little  he 
needed  emphatically.  Soon  a  new  book  and 
other  literary  projects  would  keep  him  going, 
but  —  meanwhile  !  How  were  the  next  two 
or  three  months  to  be  bridged?  Return  to 
his  father's  house,  he  neither  would,  nor 
perhaps,  indeed,  could. 

So  he  lay  awake  a  long  while,  fruitlessly 
thinking;  but,  just  before  he  slept,  a  thought 
that  made  him  laugh  himself  awake  suggested 
itself:  "Why  not  go  and  ask  Aunt  Tipping 
to  take  pity  on  you  ? " 

So  he  went  to  sleep,  resolved,  if  only  for 
the  fun  of  it,  to  pay  a  visit  to  Aunt  Tipping 
on  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

A   PREPOSTEROUS  AUNT 

No  doubt  it  has  been  surmised  from  what  has 
gone  before,  that  when  Henry  said  to  himself 
that  he  would  go  and  see  Aunt  Tipping,  he 
did  not  propose  to  himself  a  visit  to  the 
country  seat  of  some  quaint  old  lady  of 
quality.  Baronial  towers  and  stately  avenues 
of  ancestral  elm  did  not  make  a  picturesque 
background  for  his  thoughts  as  he  recalled 
Aunt  Tipping. 

Poor  kind  Aunt  Tipping,  it  is  a  shame 
to  banter  her  memory  even  in  so  obvious  a 
fashion;  for  if  ever  there  was  a  kind  heart,  it 
was  hers.  In  fact  she  possessed,  in  a  degree 
that  amounted  to  genius,  one  of  the  rarest  of 
human  qualities,  —  unconditional  pity  for  the 
unhappy  human  creature.  Within  her  narrow 
and  squalid  sphere,  she  was  never  known  to 
fail  of  such  succour  as  was  hers  to  give  to 


248  YOUNG   LIVES 

misfortune,   however  well-merited,   or  misery 
however  self-made. 

No    religion    or    philosophy    has    ever   yet 
been    merciful    enough    to    human  weakness. 
Matilda    Tipping    repaired    the    lack   so    far 
as  she  went.     In  fact,  she  had  unconsciously 
realised  that  weakness  is  human  nature.     It 
would    be    difficult    to    fix    upon    an    offence 
that    would   disqualify    you    for    Aunt    Tip- 
ping's    pity.      To    the    prodigalities    of   the 
passions,  and   the  appetites    disastrously   in- 
dulged,  she  was  accustomed  by  a  long   suc- 
cession   of   those    sad   and    shady   lodgers  to 
whom  it  was  part  of  her  precarious  livelihood 
to  let  her   rooms,   and,   not    infrequently,    to 
forgive   them    their    rent.       That    men    and 
women  should  drink  too  much,  and  love  too 
many,  was,  her  experience   told   her,  one  of 
those  laws  of  nature  that  seemed  to  make  a 
good   deal    of   unnecessary    inconvenience    in 
mortal  affairs,  but  against  which  mere  preach- 
ing or  punishment  availed  nothing.      All  that 
was   to   be   done    was,   so  far  as  possible,   to 
repair   their   ravages  in  particular  instances, 
and  heal  the  wounds  of  human  passion  with 
simple  human  kindness. 

Of   two   vessels,    one  for   honour   and   the 


A   PREPOSTEROUS  AUNT        249 

other  for  dishonour,  surely  nature  never  made 
so  complete  a  contrast  as  Matilda  Tipping 
and  her  sister,  Mary  Mesurier.  Both  country 
girls,  born  in  a  humble,  though  defiantly 
respectable,  stratum  of  society,  the  ways  of 
the  two  sisters  had  already  parted  in  child- 
hood. Mary  was  studious,  neat,  and  relig- 
ious; Matilda  was  tomboyish,  impatient  of 
restraint,  and  fond  of  unedifying  associates. 

"Your  aunt  never  aspired,"  Mrs.  Mesurier 
would  say  of  Aunt  Tipping  sometimes  to  her 
children;  and,  while  still  a  child,  she  had 
often  reproached  her  with  her  fondness  for 
gossiping  with  companions  "beneath  her." 
Matilda  could  never  be  persuaded  to  care  for 
books.  She  was  naturally  illiterate,  and  even 
late  in  life  had  a  fixed  aversion  to  writing  her 
own  letters;  whereas,  at  the  age  of  seven, 
Mary  had  been  public  scrivener  for  the  whole 
village.  But  with  these  regrettable  instincts, 
from  the  first  Matilda  had  also  manifested  a 
whimsical  liveliness,  an  unconquerable  light- 
heartedness  which  made  you  forgive  her  any- 
thing, and  for  which,  poor  soul,  she  had  use 
enough  before  she  was  done  with  life.  At 
seventeen,  added  to  good  looks,  of  which  at 
fifty  there  was  scarcely  a  trace  in  the  thin 


250  YOUNG   LIVES 

and  meanly  worn  face,  this  vivacity  had 
proved  a  tragic  snare.  A  certain  young 
capitalist  —  known  as  a  great  gentleman  —  of 
that  countryside  had  pounced  down  on  the 
gay  and  careless  young  Matilda,  and  had  at 
once  provided  her  life  with  its  formative 
tragedy  and  its  deathless  romance.  Even  at 
fifty,  hopelessly  buried  among  the  back 
streets  and  pawnshops  of  life,  heaven  still 
opened  in  the  heart  of  Matilda  Tipping  at 
the  mention  of  the  name  of  William  All- 
sopp.  For  several  years  she  had  lived  with 
the  Mesuriers,  as  general  help  to  her  sister, 
between  whom  and  her,  in  spite  of  surface 
disparities,  there  was  an  indissoluble  bond  of 
affection;  till,  at  thirty -five  or  so,  she  had 
suddenly  won  the  heart  of  a  sad  old  widower 
of  fifty-five,  named  Samuel  Tipping. 

Samuel  Tipping  was  no  ordinary  widower. 
As  you  looked  at  his  severe,  thoughtful  face, 
surmounted  by  a  shock  of  beautiful  white  hair, 
you  instinctively  respected  him ;  and  when 
you  heard  that  he  lived  by  cobbling  shoes  by 
day  and  playing  a  violin  in  the  Theatre  Royal 
orchestra  by  night,  occasionally  putting  off 
his  leather  apron  to  give  a  music  lesson  in 
the  front  parlour  of  an  afternoon,  you  respected 


A   PREPOSTEROUS   AUNT        251 

him  all  the  more.  There  had  been  but  one 
thing  against  Mr.  Tipping's  eligibility  for 
marriage,  Matilda  Tipping  would  tell  you, 
even  years  after,  with  a  lowering  of  her  voice : 
he  was  said  to  be  an  "atheist,"  and  a  reader 
of  strange  books.  Yet  he  seemed  a  quiet, 
manageable  man,  and  likely  —  again  in  Mrs. 
Tipping's  phrase  — to  prove  a  "good  pro- 
vider;" so  she  had  risked  his  heterodoxy, 
which  indeed  was  a  somewhat  fanciful  objec- 
tion on  her  part,  and  made  him,  as  he  declared 
with  his  dying  breath,  the  best  of  wives. 

It  chanced  that  when  Henry,  in  pursuance 
of  his  over-night  resolve,  made  his  way  the  fol- 
lowing afternoon  through  a  dingy  little  street, 
and  knocked  on  the  door  of  a  dingy  little 
house,  bearing  upon  a  brass  plate  the  legend 
"Boots  neatly  repaired,"  Mr.  Tipping  was 
engaged  in  giving  one  of  those  very  music  les- 
sons. A  dingy  little  maid-of-all-work  opened 
the  door,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Tipping  was  out 
shopping,  but  would  be  back  soon.  From  the 
front  parlour  came  the  lifeless  tum-tumming  of 
the  piano,  and  Mr.  Tipping's  voice  gruffly 
counting  time  to  the  cheerless  five-finger  exer- 
cises of  a  very  evident  beginner. 

"  One  —  two  —  three  !     One  —  two  —  three  ! 


252  YOUNG  LIVES 

One — two  —  three!  "  went  Mr.  Tipping's voice, 
with  an  occasional  infusion  of  savagery. 

"But  Mr.  Tipping  is  at  home?"  said  Henry. 
"  I  will  wait  till  he  is  disengaged.  I  will  make 
myself  comfortable  in  the  kitchen,"  (Henry 
knew  his  way  about  at  Aunt  Tipping's,  and 
remembered  there  was  only  one  front  parlour) 
adding,  with  something  of  pride,  "  I  'm  Mrs. 
Tipping's  nephew,  you  know." 

Presently  the  torture  in  the  front  parlour  was 
at  an  end ;  and,  as  Mr.  Tipping  was  about  to 
turn  upstairs  to  the  little  back  room  where  he 
mended  his  shoes,  Henry  emerged  upon  him 
from  the  kitchen.  They  had  had  some  talks 
on  books  and  the  general  misgovernment  of  the 
universe,  —  for  Mr.  Tipping  really  was  some- 
thing of  an  "  atheist,"  —  on  Henry's  occasional 
visits,  and  were  no  strangers  to  each  other. 

"  Why,  Henry,  lad,  whoever  expected  to  see 
you!  Your  aunt's  out  at  present;  but  she'll 
be  back  soon.  Come  into  the  parlour." 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  Uncle  Tipping,  I  'd 
rather  come  upstairs  with  you.  I  love  the 
smell  of  the  leather  and  the  sight  of  all  those 
sharp  little  knives,  and  the  black,  shiny  '  dub- 
bin,' do  you  call  it?  And  we  can  have  a  talk 
about  books  till  aunt  comes  home." 


A   PREPOSTEROUS   AUNT        253 

"All  right,  lad.  But  it's  a  dusty  place,  and 
there  's  hardly  a  corner  to  sit  down  in." 

So  up  they  went  to  a  little  room  where,  in  a 
chaos  of  boots  mended  on  one  hand,  and  boots 
to  mend  on  the  other,  sheets  of  leather  lying 
about,  in  one  corner  a  great  tubfull  of  water  in 
which  the  leather  was  soaked,  —  an  old  boyish 
fascination  of  Henry's,  —  Mr.  Tipping  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  days.  He  sat  on  a  low 
bench  near  a  window,  along  which  ran  a  broad 
sill  full  of  tools.  On  this,  too,  lay  an  opened 
book,  into  which  Mr.  Tipping  would  dip  now 
and  again,  when  he  could  safely  leave  the  boot 
he  was  engaged  upon  to  the  mechanical  skill 
of  his  hands.  At  one  end  of  the  tool-shelf 
was  a  small  collection  of  books,  a  dozen  or  so 
shabby  volumes,  though  these  were  far  from 
constituting  Mr.  Tipping's  complete  library. 

Mr.  Tipping  belonged  to  that  pathetic  army 
of  book-lovers  who  subsist  on  the  refuse  of  the 
stalls,  which  he  hunted  not  for  rare  editions, 
but  for  the  sheer  bread  of  life,  or  rather  the 
stale  crusts  of  knowledge.  His  tastes  were  not 
literary  in  the  special  sense  of  the  word.  For 
belles-lettres  he  had  no  fancy,  and  fine  passages, 
except  in  so  far  as  they  were  controversial, 
left  him  cold.  His  mind  was  primarily  scien- 


254  YOUNG  LIVES 

tific,  secondarily  philosophic,  and  occasion- 
ally historic.  Travels  and  books  of  physical 
science  were  the  finds  for  which,  mainly,  he 
rummaged  the  stalls.  At  the  moment  his  pet 
study  was  astronomy ;  and  a  curious  apparatus 
in  one  of  the  corners,  which  Henry  had  noticed 
as  he  entered,  was  his  sad  attempt  to  rig  up  a 
telescope  for  himself. 

"It's  not  so  bad  as  it  looks,"  he  said,  point- 
ing it  out;  "  but  then,"  he  added,  with  a  smile 
half  sad  and  half  humorous,  "there  are  not 
many  stars  to  be  seen  from  Tichborne  Street." 

It  was  a  touching  characteristic  of  the  type 
of  bookman  to  which  Mr.  Tipping  belonged, 
that  the  astronomy  from  which  he  was  reading 
by  no  means  embodied  the  latest  discoveries. 
In  fact,  it  narrowly  escaped  being  eighteenth- 
century  science,  for  it  was  dated  very  early  in 
the  eighteen  hundreds.  But  an  astronomy 
was  an  astronomy  to  Mr.  Tipping;  and  had 
Copernicus  been  born  late  enough,  he  would 
most  certainly  have  imbibed  Ptolemaic  doc- 
trines with  grateful  unsuspicion.  Indeed,  had 
it  been  put  to  him :  "  This  astronomy  after 
Copernicus  at  half-a-crown,  and  this  after  Ptol- 
emy for  sixpence,"  his  means  alone  would 
have  left  him  no  choice.  It  is  so  the  old 


A   PREPOSTEROUS   AUNT        255 

clothes  of  the  mind,  like  the  old  clothes  of  the 
body, —  superseded  science,  forgotten  philoso- 
phy,—  find  a  market,  and  a  book  remains  a 
book,  with  the  power  of  comforting  or  divert- 
ing some  indigent,  poor  soul,  so  long  as  the 
stitching  holds  it  together. 

Presently  there  was  a  knock  at  the  front 
door. 

"  There 's  your  aunt,"  said  Mr.  Tipping ;  and, 
as  the  door  opened,  the  little  maid-of-all-work 
was  to  be  heard  whispering  her  mistress  that  a 
young  gentleman  who  said  he  was  her  nephew 
had  come  and  was  upstairs  with  "  the  master." 

"  Well,  I  never ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tipping, 
immediately  starting  upstairs  towards  the  open 
door  of  the  cobblery. 

Henry  was  standing  on  the  threshold,  and 
the  warm-hearted  little  woman  gave  him  a 
hearty  hug  of  welcome. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  !  And  how 
are  they  all  at  home?  "  and  she  ran  over  the 
list,  name  for  name.  "  We  must  n't  forget 
your  father.  But  he  's  a  hard  'un  and  no  mis- 
take," said  the  aunt,  putting  on  a  mimic 
expression  of  severity. 

"  He  's  an  upright  man,  is  James  Mesurier," 
said  Mr.  Tipping,  rather  severely. 


256  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes ;  we  know  that,  crosspatch. 
I  'm  saying  nothing  against  him.  He  's  good  at 
heart,  I  know ;  but  he  's  a  little  hard  on  the  sur- 
face—  like  some  other  folks  I  know,"  making 
a  face  at  her  husband.  "  But  you  must  come 
down  and  talk  to  me  a  bit,  lad ;  you  '11  have 
had  enough  of  him  and  his  old  books.  You 
never  saw  the  like  of  him !  Here  he  sits  day 
after  day  over  his  musty  books,  and  you  can 
hardly  get  him  away  for  his  meals.  He  's  no 
company  for  any  one." 

"  Talk  of  something  you  can  understand, 
lass,"  retorted  the  husband,  in  a  voice  that 
took  any  unkindness  from  the  words,  rather 
like  a  father  than  a  husband.  "  You  don't  ail 
much  for  lack  of  company,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Now  if  it  was  only  a  good  novel,"  his  wife 
persisted ;  "  but  nothing  but  travels,  geogra- 
phies, and  such  like.  Last  thing  he 's  taken  up 
with  is  the  stars.  I  suppose  he  's  been  telling 
you  about  them  —  "  and  she  said  this  half  as 
though  it  were  a  new  form  of  lunacy  Mr.  Tip- 
ping had  developed,  and  half  as  though  he 
had  been  opening  up  new  realms  of  knowledge 
—  original  but  useless.  She  was  far  indeed 
from  understanding  that  lonely  mind  and  its 
tragedy,  thirsting  so  hopelessly  for  knowledge, 


A   PREPOSTEROUS  AUNT        257 

and  to  die  athirst.  She  heard  him  knock, 
knock  all  day  upstairs ;  but  the  knocking  told 
her  nothing  of  his  loneliness.  He  was  just  a 
good,  hard-working,  rather  cross  old  man,  un- 
accountably fond  of  printed  matter,  whom  she 
liked  to  be  good  to,  and  if  in  her  time  that 
knocking  upstairs  should  stop  for  ever  —  well ! 
she  was  n't  one  to  meet  trouble  half  way,  but 
she  would  miss  it  a  good  deal,  old  man  as  he 
was. 

She  was  herself  nearing  fifty;  but  her  slim 
little  wiry  body  and  her  elfish,  wrinkled  face, 
never  still,  but  ever  alive  with  the  same  vivacity 
that  years  ago  had  attracted  William  Allsopp, 
made  her  seem  younger  than  her  years ;  and 
her  husband  treated  her  as  though  she  were 
still  a  child,  a  wilful  child. 

"  Eh,  Matilda,"  he  said,  "  you  're  just  a 
child.  No  more  nor  less, — just  a  child.  The 
years  have  n't  tamed  you  one  bit  — 

"  Get  out  with  you  and  your  old  stars  !  "  she 
said,  laughing.  "  Henry,  come  along  and  have 
a  talk  with  your  old  aunt." 

Though  invincibly  cheerful  through  it  all, 

Aunt  Tripping  was  always  in  trouble,  if  not  for 

herself,  for  somebody  else.     To-day,  it  was  for 

herself,  though  it  was  but  a  minor  reverse  in 

17 


258  YOUNG  LIVES 

the  guerilla  warfare  of  her  life.  A  distressed 
lodger  who  had  just  left  had  begged  her  to 
accept,  in  lieu  of  rent,  the  pawn-ticket  of  a 
handsome  clock  which  had  been  hers  in  hap- 
pier days;  and  Mrs.  Tipping,  moved  as  she 
always  was  by  any  tale  of  woe,  however  elab- 
orate, had  consented.  Nor  in  her  world  was 
such  a  way  of  settling  accounts  very  excep- 
tional, for  pawn-tickets  were  there  looked 
upon  as  legitimately  negotiable  securities.  In- 
deed, Aunt  Tipping  was  seldom  without  a 
selection  of  such  securities  upon  her  hands ; 
and,  if  a  neighbour  should  chance  to  be  in 
need,  say,  of  a  new  set  of  chimney  ornaments, 
as  likely  as  not  Aunt  Tipping  had  in  her  purse 
a  pledge  for  the  very  thing.  This  she  would 
sell  at  a  reasonable  profit,  which  would  prob- 
ably amount  to  but  a  small  proportion  of  the 
original  debt  for  which  she  had  accepted  it. 
It  was  not  a  lucrative  business,  though  there 
were  occasional  "  bargains "  in  it. 

In  that  word  "  bargains,"  all  the  active 
romance  of  Aunt  Tipping's  life  was  now  cen- 
tred. In  all  departments  of  the  cast-off  and 
the  second-hand  she  was  a  daring  speculator; 
and  a  spirited  "  auction  "  now  and  again  ex- 
hilarated her  as  much  as  a  fortnight  by  the  sea. 


A   PREPOSTEROUS  AUNT        259 

That  house  which  she  fought  so  desperately  to 
keep  tidy  and  respectable,  had  been  furnished 
almost  entirely  in  this  way.  There  was  hardly 
an  article  in  it  that  had  not  already  lived 
other  lives  in  other  houses,  before  it  had  been 
picked  up,  "  dirt  cheap,"  by  Aunt  Tipping. 

But  this  afternoon  her  confidence  in  human 
nature  had  received  a  cruel  wound.  When, 
after  an  hour's  weary  drag  to  a  remote  end  of 
the  town,  she  had  arrived  at  the  pawnshop 
where  was  preserved  the  handsome  clock  of 
the  distressed  lady,  and  had  confidently  pre- 
sented the  ticket  and  the  necessary  money,  the 
man  had  looked  awhile  perplexed.  They  had 
no  such  clock,  he  said.  And  then,  as  he 
further  examined  the  ticket,  a  light  broke  in 
upon  him. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  look  here.  The 
year  on  this  ticket  has,  been  changed." 

So  indeed  it  had,  and  poor  Aunt  Tipping 
was  at  least  a  year  too  late. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  treatment?  "  she 
said  to  Henry ;  "  and  such  a  nice  lady  she  was. 
'  I  shall  never  forget  your  goodness  to  me, 
Mrs.  Tipping,'  she  said  as  she  went  away, 
'never,  if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred.'  I  '11  '  good- 
ness '  her,  if  ever  I  catch  her.  Cheating  honest 


26o  YOUNG  LIVES 

folks  like  that!  Such  people  oughtn't  to  be 
allowed.  I  don't  know  how  people  can  be- 
have so !  " 

Aunt  Tipping's  indignation  seldom  outlived 
a  few  plaintive  words  of  this  sort ;  and  had  the 
offending  lady  of  the  clock  appeared  next 
moment,  and  given  some  Arabian  Nights'  ex- 
planation, there  is  little  doubt  that  Aunt  Tip- 
ping would  have  forgiven  her  on  the  spot.  A 
tendency  to  do  so  was  already  active  in  her 
next  remark, — 

"  Well,  poor  soul,  we  must  n't  be  too  hard 
on  her.  We  never  know  what  we  may  be 
brought  to  ourselves."  For  it  was  Aunt 
Tipping's  unformulated  axiom  that,  whatever 
cock-and-bull  stories  misfortune  may  tell,  there 
is  always  some  truth  in  human  misery. 

When  Henry  had  told  Aunt  Tipping  his 
story,  and  ventured  to  hint  a  suggestion  that, 
if  it  should  not  be  inconvenient  for  her,  he 
would  like  to  take  sanctuary  with  her  for  a 
month  or  two,  till  he  got  his  hopes  into  work- 
ing order,  her  little  sharp  face  fairly  gleamed 
with  delight.  You  would  have  thought  that 
he  was  bringing  her  some  great  benefit,  instead 
of  proposing  to  take  something  from  her. 
That  he  should  have  thought  of  her,  such  a 


A   PREPOSTEROUS   AUNT        261 

little  humble  aunt;  that,  added  to  the  love  she 
had  for  any  one  with  any  tincture  of  her 
family's  blood  running  in  their  veins,  plus 
her  general  weakness  for  any  one  in  trouble, 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes  that  made  her  look 
quite  young  again. 

"  I  should  think  so  indeed  !  "  she  said.  "  The 
best  your  poor  old  auntie  's  got  is  yours  with 
all  her  heart  —  Ah,  your  father  never  under- 
stood you.  You  Ve  got  too  much  of  our  side 
of  the  family  in  you.  You  're  a  bit  wild,  you 
know,  lad ;  but  you  're  none  the  worse  for 
that,  eh?" 

There  is  no  need  to  say  that  Aunt  Tipping's 
understanding  of  the  tastes  and  ambitions 
which  had  driven  Henry  momentarily  to  take 
refuge  with  her  was  of  the  vaguest ;  but  all  she 
needed  to  know  of  such  a  situation  was  that: 
here  on  the  one  hand  was  something  some- 
body very  much  wanted  to  do,  and  here  on 
the  other  were  certain  stern  powers  ranked 
against  his  doing  it.  That  was  enough  for 
her.  Her  sympathy  with  all  forms  of  revolt 
was  instantaneous.  For  law  and  order,  as 
such,  she  had  an  instinctive  antipathy,  as  in 
all  contests  whatsoever  her  one  general  rule 
was :  "  Side  with  the  weaker."  And  it  cannot 


262  YOUNG  LIVES 

but  have  been  perceived  that  so  much  sym- 
pathy with  weakness  could  hardly  have  been 
in  the  gift  of  weakness.  No ;  Aunt  Tipping 
was  entirely  impersonal  in  these  charities  of 
feeling,  and  it  was  because  there  was  so  much 
sterling  honesty  and  strength  hidden  in  her 
little  wiry  frame,  that  she  could  afford  so  much 
succour  to  those  who  were  neither  honest  nor 
strong. 

"  Well,  it  was  nice  of  you  to  think  of  your 
poor  old  aunt,"  she  repeated  again  and  again ; 
and  then  she  remarked  on  the  good  fortune 
which  had  caused  the  vacation  of  the  front 
room  over  the  parlour,  her  grievance  against 
the  lady  of  the  handsome  clock  quite  forgotten. 

"  It 's  a  nice  airy  room,"  she  said  ;  and  then 
she  began  planning  how  she  might  best  arrange 
it  for  his  comfort. 

"  Dear  little  aunt,"  said  Henry,  taking  the 
little  wisp  of  a  woman  into  his  arms,  "you're 
the  salt  of  the  earth." 

"Why  ever  didn't  I  think  of  it  before!" 
exclaimed  Aunt  Tipping,  presently.  "  I  've 
got  the  very  gentleman  to  help  you  with  your 
writing." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Henry,  somewhat  sceptical. 


A   PREPOSTEROUS   AUNT        263 

"  Yes ;  he 's  down  there  in  the  back  parlour. 
They  say  he  's  a  great  writer,"  continued  Aunt 
Tipping ;  "  but  he  's  not  very  well  the  last  day 
or  two,  and  does  n't  see  anybody.  To  tell  the 
truth,  poor  gentleman,"  she  confided,  lowering 
her  voice,  "  he  's  just  a  little  too  fond  of  his 
glass.  But  he 's  as  good  and  kind  a  gentle- 
man as  ever  stepped,  and  always  regular  with 
his  rent  every  Monday  morning." 

There  was  usually  something  mysterious 
about  Aunt  Tipping's  lodgers.  At  their  best, 
she  had  known  them  as  elaborately  wronged 
bye-products  of  aristocracy.  Many  of  them 
were  lawful  expectants  of  illegally  delayed 
fortunes,  and  at  the  very  least  they  always 
drank  romantically. 

Thus  it  was  that  to  the  somewhat  amused 
surprise  of  his  family,  Henry  came  to  take 
up  his  abode  for  a  while  with  Aunt  Tipping, 
and  that  his  books  and  the  cast  of  Dante,  and 
the  sketch  of  the  young  Dante  done  in  sepia 
by  Myrtilla  Williamson's  own  fair  hand,  came 
to  find  themselves  in  the  incongruous  environ- 
ment of  Tichborne  Street. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE     LITERARY     GENTLEMAN     IN     THE     BACK 
PARLOUR 

AUNT  TIPPING  proved  not  so  ludicrously  out  of 
it  after  all  in  regard  to  the  literary  gentleman 
in  the  back  parlour.  Henry  had  hardly  known 
what  to  expect ;  but  certainly  he  had  pictured 
no  one  so  interesting  as  Ashton  Gerard  proved 
to  be.  For  a  dark  den  smelling  strongly  of 
whisky  and  water,  and  some  slovenly  creature 
of  the  underworld  crouched  in  a  dirty  armchair 
over  the  fire,  he  found  instead  a  pleasant  little 
room,  very  neatly  kept,  with  books,  two  or 
three  good  pictures,  and  general  evidence  of 
cultivated  tastes ;  and  on  Mr.  Gerard's  refined 
sad  face,  which,  being  shaven,  and  surmounted 
by  a  tuft  of  vigorous  curly  hair,  once  black  but 
now  curiously  splashed  with  vivid  flakes  of 
white,  retained  something  of  boyish  beauty 
even  at  forty,  you  looked  in  vain  for  the  marks 
of  one  who  was  in  the  grip  of  an  imperious 


THE   LITERARY   GENTLEMAN     265 

vice.  Only  by  the  marked  dimness  and  weari- 
ness of  his  blue  eyes,  which  gave  the  face  a 
rather  helpless,  dreamy  expression,  might  the 
experienced  observer  have  understood.  So  to 
speak,  the  ocular  will  had  gone  out  of  them ; 
they  no  longer  grasped  the  visible,  but  glided 
listlessly  over  it ;  nor  did  they  seem  to  be  look- 
ing on  things  invisible.  They  were  the  eyes  of 
the  drowned. 

Mr.  Gerard  had  exceedingly  gentle  manners. 
It  was  easy  to  understand  that  a  landlady  would 
worship  him.  He  gave  little  trouble,  asked 
for  the  most  necessary  service  as  though  it  were 
a  courtesy,  and  never  forgot  an  interest  in  Aunt 
Tipping's  affairs.  On  bright  days  he  revealed 
a  vein  of  quite  boyish  gaiety ;  and  in  his  talk 
with  Henry  he  flashed  out  a  strange  paradoxical 
humour,  too  often  morbid  in  its  themes,  which, 
as  usually  the  case  with  such  humour,  was 
really  sadness  coming  to  the  surface  in  a  jest. 

It  soon  transpired  that  a  favourite  subject  of 
his  talk  was  that  very  weakness  which  most 
men  would  have  been  at  pains  to  hide. 

"  So  you  're  going  to  be  a  poet,  Mr.  Mesu- 
rier,"  he  said.  "  Well,  so  was  I  once,  so  was  I 
—  but,"  he  continued,  "  all  too  early  another 
Muse  took  hold  of  me,  a  terrible  Muse — yet  a 


266  YOUNG   LIVES 

Muse  who  never  forsakes  you  —  "  and  he  laid 
his  hand  on  a  decanter  which  stood  near  him 
on  the  table,  —  "  yes,  Mr.  Mesurier,  the  terri- 
ble Muse  of  Drink !  You  may  be  surprised  to 
hear  me  talk  so  ;  yet  were  this  laudanum  instead 
of  brandy,  there  would  seem  to  you  a  certain 
element  of  the  poetic  in  the  service  of  such  a 
Muse.  Drinks  with  Oriental  or  unfamiliar 
names  have  a  romantic  sound.  Thus  Alfred  de 
Musset  as  the  slave  to  absinthe  sounds  much 
more  poetic  than,  say,  Alfred  de  Musset  as  a 
slave  to  rum  or  gin,  or  even  this  brandy  here. 
Yet  this,  too,  is  no  less  the  stuff  that  dreams 
are  made  of;  and  the  opium-eater,  the  absinthe- 
sipper,  the  brandy-drinker,  are  all  members 
of  the  same  great  brotherhood  of  tragic 
idealists  —  " 

He  talked  deliberately ;  but  there  was  a  smile 
playing  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth  which 
took  from  his  talk  the  sense  of  a  painful  self- 
revelation,  and  gave  it  the  air  of  a  playful 
fantasia  upon  a  paradox  that  for  the  moment 
amused  him. 

"  Idealists  I  Yes,"  he  continued ;  "  for  what 
few  understand  is  that  drink  is  an  idealism  — 
and,"  he  presently  added  with  a  laugh,  "  and, 
of  course,  like  all  idealisms,  it  has  its  dangers." 


THE   LITERARY   GENTLEMAN     267 

With  a  monomaniac,  conversation  is  apt  to 
limit  itself  to  monologue ;  so,  while  Henry  was 
greatly  interested  in  this  odd  talk,  it  left  him 
but  little  to  say. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  shock  you  a  little,  Mr.  Mesu- 
rier,  perhaps  even  —  disgust  you,"  said  Mr. 
Gerard. 

"  Indeed,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Henry ;  "  but  both 
the  subject  and  your  way  of  treating  it  are,  I 
confess,  a  little  new  to  me." 

"  You  are  surprised  to  find  one  who  is  what 
is  popularly  known  as  a  drunkard  not  so  much 
ashamed  of  as  interested  in  himself;  is  n't  that 
it?  Well,  that  comes  of  the  introspective 
literary  temperament.  It  is  only  the  oyster 
fascinated  by  the  pearl  that  is  killing  it." 

"  You  should  write  some  '  Confessions '  after 
the  manner  of  De  Quincey,"  said  Henry. 

"  Indeed,  I  Ve  often  thought  of  it,  for  there 's 
so  much  that  needs  saying  on  the  subject. 
There  is  nothing  with  which  we  are  at  once  so 
familiar  and  of  which  we  know  so  little.  For 
example  "  —  and  now  he  was  quite  plainly  off 
again  —  "  for  example,  the  passion  for,  I  might 
say  the  dream  of,  drink  is  usually  regarded  as 
a  sensual  appetite,  a  physical  indulgence.  No 
doubt  in  its  first  crude  stages  it  often  is  so; 


268  YOUNG   LIVES 

but  soon  it  becomes  something  much  more 
strange  and  abstract.  It  becomes  a  mysterious 
command,  issuing  we  know  not  whence.  It  is 
hardly  a  desire,  and  it  is  not  so  much  a  joyless, 
as  a  quite  colourless,  obedience  to  an  imperious 
necessity,  decreed  by  some  unknown  will.  You 
might  well  imagine  that  I  like  the  taste  of  this 
brandy  there,  as  a  child  is  greedily  fond  of 
sweetstuff;  but  it  would  be  quite  a  mistake. 
For  my  own  personal  taste,  there  is  no  drink 
like  a  cup  of  tea ;  it  is  the  demon,  the  strange 
will  that  has  imposed  itself  upon  me,  that  has 
a  taste  for  brandy. 

"I  sometimes  wonder  whether  we  poor 
drunkards  are  not  the  victims  of  disembodied 
powers  of  the  air  who,  by  some  chance,  have 
contracted  a  craving  for  earthly  liquors,  and 
can  only  satisfy  that  craving  by  fastening  them- 
selves upon  some  unhappy  human  organism. 
At  times  there  comes  an  intermission  of  the 
command,  as  mysterious  almost  as  the  com- 
mand itself.  For  weeks  together  we  give  no 
thought  to  our  tyrant.  We  grow  gay  and 
young  and  innocent  again.  We  are  free, — so 
free,  we  seem  to  have  forgotten  that  we  were 
ever  enslaved.  Then  suddenly  one  day  we 
hear  the  call  again.  We  cry  for  mercy ;  we 


THE   LITERARY   GENTLEMAN     269 

throw  ourselves  on  our  knees  in  prayer.  We 
clutch  sacred  relics ;  we  conjure  the  aid  of  holy 
memories ;  we  say  over  to  ourselves  the  names 
of  the  dead  we  have  loved :  but  it  is  all  in  vain 
—  surely  we  are  dragged  to  the  feet  of  that 
inexorable  will,  surely  we  submit  ourselves 
once  more  to  the  dark  dominion." 

Henry  listened,  fascinated,  and  a  little 
frightened. 

"  The  longer  I  live,  the  more  I  grow  con- 
vinced that  this  is  no  mere  fancy,  but  actual 
science,"  Mr.  Gerard  continued ;  "  for,  again, 
you  might  well  imagine  that  one  drinks  for 
the  dreams  or  other  illusory  effects  it  is  said 
to  produce.  At  first,  perhaps,  yes ;  but  such 
effects  speedily  pass  away,  they  pass  away 
indeed  before  the  tyranny  has  established 
itself,  while  it  would  still  be  possible  to  shake 
it  off.  No,  the  dreams  of  drink  are  poor 
things,  not  worth  having  at  the  best.  Indeed, 
there  are  no  dreams  worth  having,  believe  me, 
but  those  of  youth  and  health  and  spring- 
water." 

And  Mr.  Gerard  passed  for  awhile  in  silence 
into  some  hidden  country  of  his  lost  dreams. 

Henry  gazed  at  him  with  a  curious  wonder. 
Here  was  a  man  evidently  of  considerable 


2;o  YOUNG  LIVES 

gifts,  a  man  of  ideals,  of  humour,  a  man  witty 
and  gentle,  who  surely  could  have  easily  made 
his  mark  in  the  world,  and  yet  he  had  thrown 
all  away  for  a  mechanical  habit  which  he  him- 
self did  not  pretend  to  be  a  passion,  —  a  mere 
abstract  attraction :  as  though  a  man  should 
say,  "  I  care  not  for  the  joys  or  successes 
of  this  world.  My  destiny  is  to  sit  alone 
all  day  and  count  my  fingers  and  toes,  count 
them  over  and  over  and  over  again.  There 
is  not  much  pleasure  in  it,  and  I  should  be 
glad  to  break  off  the  habit,  —  but  there  it 
is.  It  is  imposed  upon  me  by  a  will  stronger 
than  mine  which  I  must  obey.  It  is  my 
destiny." 

"  Yes,  idealists !  "  said  Mr.  Gerard,  pres- 
ently coming  back  from  his  dreams  to  his 
great  subject,  with  a  laugh.  "  That  reminds 
me  of  a  story  a  business  friend  of  mine  told 
me  the  other  day.  A  clerk  in  his  office  was 
an  incorrigible  drunkard.  He  was  quite  alone 
in  the  world,  and  had  no  one  dependent  upon 
him.  The  firm  had  been  lenient  to  him,  and 
again  and  again  forgiven  his  outbreaks.  But 
one  morning  they  called  him  in  and  said : 
'  Look  here,  Jones,  we  have  had  a  great  deal 
of  patience  with  you ;  but  the  time  has  come 


when  you  must  choose  between  the  drink  and 
the  office.'  To  their  surprise,  Jones,  instead 
of  eagerly  promising  reform,  looked  up  gravely, 
and  replied,  '  Will  you  give  me  a  week  to 
think  it  over,  sir?  It  is  a  very  serious  matter.' 
Drink  was  all  the  poor  fellow  had  outside  his 
drudgery ;  was  it  to  be  expected  that  he  should 
thus  lightly  sacrifice  it?  — 

"  But,  to  talk  about  something  else,  your 
aunt,  Mrs.  Tipping,  who  has  a  great  idea  of 
my  literary  importance,  has  a  notion  that  I 
may  be  of  some  help  to  you,  Mr.  Mesurier. 
Well,  I  '11  tell  you  the  whole  extent  of  my 
present  literary  engagements,  and  you  are 
perfectly  at  liberty  to  laugh.  At  the  present 
time  I  do  the  sporting  notes  for  the  Tyrian 
Daily  Mail,  and  I  write  the  theological  reviews 
for  The  Fleet  Street  Review.  These  apparently 
incongruous  occupations  are  the  relics  of  an 
old  taste  for  sport,  which  as  a  boy  in  the 
country  I  had  ample  opportunity  for  indulg- 
ing, and  of  an  interrupted  training  for  the 
Church  —  'twixt  then  and  now  there  is  an 
eventful  gap  which,  if  you  don't  mind,  we 
won't  sadden  each  other  by  filling —  Let 
us  fill  our  glasses  and  our  pipes  instead ;  and, 
having  failed  so  entirely  myself,  I  will  give 


272  YOUNG   LIVES 

you    minute    directions    how   to    succeed     in 
literature." 

Mr.  Gerard's  discourse  on  how  to  succeed  in 
literature  was  partly  practical  and  partly  ironi- 
cal, and  probably  too  technical  to  interest  the 
general  reader,  who  has  no  intention  of  being 
a  great  or  a  little  writer,  and  who  perhaps  has 
already  found  Mr.  Gerard's  previous  discourse 
a  little  too  special  in  its  character.  Suffice  it 
that  Henry  heard  much  to  remember,  and 
much  to  laugh  over,  and  that  Mr.  Gerard  con- 
cluded with  a  practical  offer  of  kindness. 

"  I  don't  know  how  much  use  it  may  be  to 
you,"  he  said ;  "  but  if  you  care  to  have  it,  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  give  you  a  letter  to  the 
editor  of  The  Fleet  Street  Review.  He  has,  I 
think,  a  certain  regard  for  me,  and  he  might 
send  you  a  book  to  do  now  and  again.  At  all 
events,  it  would  be  something." 

Henry  embraced  the  offer  gratefully ;  and  it 
occurred  to  him  that  in  a  day  or  two's  time 
there  was  a  five  days'  excursion  running  from 
Tyre  to  London  and  back,  for  half-a-guinea. 
Why  not  take  it,  and  expend  his  last  five 
pounds  in  a  stimulating  glimpse  of  the  city 
he  some  day  hoped  to  conquer?  He  could 
then  see  his  friend  the  publisher,  present  his 


THE   LITERARY   GENTLEMAN     273 

letter  to  the  editor,  and  perhaps  bring  home 
with  him  some  little  work  and  a  renewed  stock 
of  hopes. 

So,  before  they  parted  that  night,  Mr.  Gerard 
wrote  him  the  letter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

"THIS   IS   LONDON,   THIS   IS   LIFE" 

THUS  it  was  that,  all  unexpectedly,  Henry 
found  himself  set  down  one  autumn  morning 
at  the  homeless  hour  of  a  quarter-to-seven,  in 
Euston  station.  He  was  going  to  stay  in  some 
street  off  the  Strand,  and  chartered  a  hansom 
to  take  him  there.  Few  great  cities  are  im- 
pressive in  the  neighbourhood  of  their  railway 
termini.  You  enter  them,  so  to  speak,  by  the 
back  door ;  and  London  waves  no  banners  of 
bright  welcome  to  the  stranger  who  first  enters 
it  by  the  Euston  Road. 

But  there  was  an  interesting  church  pres- 
ently, and  on  a  dust-cart  close  by  Henry  read 
"  Vestry  of  St.  Pancras." 

"  Can  that  be  the  St.  Pancras'  Church,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  where  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
lies  buried,  and  Browning  was  married?" 

Then  as  they  drove  along  through  Blooms- 
bury,  the  name  "  Great  Coram  Street "  caught 


THIS  IS  LONDON,  THIS  IS  LIFE  275 

his  eye,  and  he  exclaimed  with  delight :  "  Why, 
that 's  where  Thackeray  lived  for  a  time  !  " 

Great  Coram  Street  is  little  accustomed  to 
create  such  excitement  in  the  breast  of  the 
passer-by.  But  to  the  stranger  London  is 
necessarily  first  a  museum,  till  he  begins  to 
love  it  as  a  home,  and,  in  addition  to  dead 
men's  associations,  begins  to  people  it  with 
memories  of  his  own.  When  you  have  lived 
awhile  in  Gray's  Inn,  you  grow  to  forget  that 
Bacon's  ghost  is  your  fellow-tenant;  and  it  is 
the  kind-hearted  provincial  who  from  time  to 
time  lays  those  flowers  on  Goldsmith's  tomb. 
When  you  are  caught  in  a  block  on  West- 
minster Bridge,  with  only  five  minutes  to  get 
to  Waterloo,  you  forget  to  say  to  yourself: 
"  Ah,  this  is  the  bridge  on  which  Words- 
worth wrote  his  famous  sonnet."  You  usually 
say  something  quite  different. 

The  mere  names  of  the  streets,  —  how  laden 
with  immemorial  poetry  they  were  !  "  Chan- 
cery Lane  !  "  How  wonderful !  Yet  the  poor 
wretch  standing  outside  the  public-house  at  the 
corner  seemed  to  derive  small  consolation  from 
the  fact  that  he  was  starving  in  Chancery  Lane. 

But  to  Henry,  as  yet,  London  was  an  ex- 
tended Westminster  Abbey,  and  every  other 


276  YOUNG  LIVES 

street  was  Poet's  Corner.  He  had  hardly 
patience  to  breakfast,  so  eager  was  he  to  be 
out  in  the  streets ;  and  while  he  ate,  his  eyes 
were  out  of  the  windows  all  the  time,  and 
his  ears  drinking  in  all  the  London  morning 
sounds  like  music.  At  the  foot  of  the  street 
ran  the  Thames ;  he  had  caught  a  thrilling 
glimpse  of  it  as  he  stepped  from  his  cab,  and 
had  had  a  childish  impulse  to  rush  down  to  it 
before  entering  his  hotel. 

At  last,  free  of  food  and  baggage,  light  of 
heart,  and  brimming  over  with  youth,  he 
stepped  into  the  street.  It  was  but  little  past 
eight  o'clock.  He  had  just  heard  the  hour 
chimed,  in  various  tones  of  sweetness  and 
solemnity,  from  several  mellow  clocks,  evidently 
hidden  high  in  the  air  in  his  near  vicinity.  For 
two  or  three  hours  there  would  be  no  editor  or 
publisher  to  be  seen,  and  meanwhile  he  had 
London  to  himself.  He  stepped  out  into  it  as 
into  a  garden,  —  a  garden  of  those  old-time 
flowers  in  which  antiquity  has  become  a 
perfume  full  of  pictures. 

Yes,  there  was  the  Thames !  "  Sweet 
Themmes,  run  softly  till  I  end  my  song !  " 
he  quoted  to  himself.  Chaucer's,  Spenser's, 
Elizabeth's  Thames ! 


THIS  IS  LONDON,  THIS  IS  LIFE     277 

It  was  a  bright  morning  and  the  river 
gleamed  to  advantage.  The  tall  tower  of 
Westminster  glittered  richly  in  the  sun,  and 
the  long  front  of  Somerset  House  wore  a  lordly 
smile.  The  embankment  gardens  sparkled  and 
rustled  in  morning  freshness.  Henry  drew  in 
the  air  of  London  as  though  it  had  been  a  rose. 
Here  was  the  Thames  at  the  foot  of  the  street, 
and  there  at  the  head  was  the  Strand,  a  stream 
of  omnibuses  and  cabs,  and  city-faring  men 
and  women.  The  Temple  must  be  somewhere 
close  by.  Of  course  it  was  here  to  his  left. 
But  he  would  first  walk  quietly  by  the  Thames 
side  to  Westminster,  and  then  come  back  by 
the  Strand.  As  he  walked,  he  stepped  lightly 
and  gently,  as  though  reverent  to  the  very 
stones  of  so  sacred  a  city,  and  all  the  time  from 
every  prospect  and  every  other  street-corner 
came  streaming  like  strains  of  music  magnetic 
memories,  — "  streets  with  the  names  of  old 
kings,  strong  earls,  and  warrior  saints."  If  for 
no  other  reason,  how  important  for  the  future 
of  a  nation  is  it  to  preserve  in  such  ancient 
cities  as  London  and  Oxford  the  energising 
spectacle  of  a  noble  and  strenuous  antiquity; 
for  there  are  no  such  inspirers  of  young  men. 
as  these  old  places !  So  much  strength  and 


278  YOUNG  LIVES 

youth  went  into  them  long  ago  that  even  yet 
they  have  strength  and  youth  to  give,  and 
from  them,  as  from  the  strong  hills,  pours  out 
an  inexhaustible  potency  of  bracing  influence. 

At  last  Henry  found  himself  back  at  the  top- 
end  of  his  street.  He  had  walked  the  Strand 
with  deliberate  enjoyment.  Fleet  Street  he 
still  reserved,  but,  as  according  to  the  tower 
of  Clement  Danes  it  was  only  just  ten  o'clock, 
it  seemed  still  a  little  early  to  attack  his  busi- 
ness. A  florist's  close  by  suggested  a  charm- 
ing commonplace  way  of  filling  the  time.  He 
would  buy  some  flowers  and  carry  them  to 
Goldsmith's  grave.  Why  Goldsmith's  grave 
should  thus  be  specially  honoured,  he  a  little 
wondered.  He  was  conscious  of  loving  several 
writers  quite  as  well.  But  it  was  a  Johnsonian 
tradition  to  love  Goldy,  and  the  accessibility 
of  his  resting-place  made  sentiment  easy. 

He  repented  this  momentary  flippancy  of 
thought  as  he  stood  in  the  cloistered  corner 
where  Goldsmith  sleeps  under  the  eye  of  the 
law ;  and,  when  he  laid  his  little  wreath  on  the 
worn  stone,  it  was  a  genuine  offering.  From 
it  he  turned  away  to  his  own  personal  dreams. 

By  eleven  he  had  found  his  friend  the 
publisher,  in  a  dainty  little  place  of  business 


THIS  IS  LONDON,  THIS  IS  LIFE     279 

crammed  with  pottery,  Rowlandsons,  and  books, 
and  more  like  a  curiosity-shop  than  a  publish- 
ing-house, for  the  publisher  proved  an  enthusi- 
ast in  everything  that  was  beautiful  or  curious, 
and  had  indeed  taken  to  publishing  from  that 
rare  motive  in  a  publisher,  —  the  love  of  books, 
rather  than  the  love  of  money.  He  was  aiming 
to  make  his  little  shop  the  rallying-point  of  all 
the  young  talent  of  the  day,  and  as  young 
talent  has  never  too  many  publishers  on  the 
look-out  for  it,  his  task  was  not  difficult,  though 
it  was  one  of  those  real  services  to  literature 
which  such  publishers  and  booksellers  have 
occasionally  done  in  our  literary  history,  with 
but  scant  acknowledgment. 

Henry  was  pleased  to  find  that  he  looked 
upon  him  to  make  one  of  his  little  band  of 
youth ;  and  as  the  publisher  understood  the  art 
of  encouragement,  Henry  already  felt  it  had 
been  worth  while  to  come  to  London  just  to 
see  him.  He  knew  the  editor  to  whom  Henry 
had  a  letter  and  volunteered  him  another.  The 
afternoon  would  be  the  best  time ;  meanwhile, 
they  must  lunch  together.  He  smiled  when 
Henry  suggested  the  Cheshire  Cheese.  Henry 
had  a  sort  of  vague  idea  that  literary  men  could 
hardly  think  of  taking  their  meals  anywhere 


280  YOUNG  LIVES 

else.  There  had  been  an  attempt  to  bring  it 
into  fashion  again,  the  publisher  said ;  but  it 
had  come  to  nothing  —  though  he,  for  one, 
loved  those  old  chop-houses,  with  their  tank- 
ards, and  their  sanded  floors.  So  to  the 
Cheshire  Cheese  they  repaired,  and  drank 
to  a  long  friendship  in  foaming  pewters  of 
porter. 

"  Alas !  "  said  Henry,  "  we  are  fallen  on 
smaller  times.  Once  it  was  '  the  poet's  pint 
of  port.'  Now  we  must  be  content  with  the 
poetaster's  half-a-pint  of  porter !  " 

"  You  must  come  to  my  rooms  to-night," 
said  the  publisher,  "  and  be  introduced  to  some 
of  our  young  men.  I  have  one  or  two  of  our 
older  critics  coming  too." 

Henry's  fortune  was  evidently  made. 

He  found  the  editor  in  a  dim  back  room  at 
the  top  of  a  high  building,  so  lost  in  a  world 
of  books  and  dust  that  at  first  Henry  could 
hardly  make  him  out,  writing  by  a  window 
with  his  back  to  the  door.  Then  an  alert 
head  turned  round  to  him,  and  a  rather  peev- 
ish gesture  bade  him  be  seated,  while  the 
editor  resumed  his  work.  This  hardly  came 
up  to  Henry's  magnificent  dreams  of  the  edi- 
torial dignity.  Perhaps  he  had  a  vague  idea 


THIS  IS  LONDON,  THIS  IS  LIFE     281 

that  editors  lived  in  palaces,  and  sat  on 
thrones. 

Presently  the  editor  put  down  his  pen  with 
an  exclamation  of  satisfaction ;  and  the  first 
impression  of  peevishness  vanished  in  the 
cordiality  with  which  he  now  turned  to  his 
visitor. 

"  You  must  excuse  my  absorption.  It  was 
a  rather  tough  piece  of  proof-reading.  A 
subject  I'm  rather  interested  in, —  new  Welsh 
dictionary.  Don't  suppose  it's  in  your  line, 
eh,  eh?"  —and  the  tall,  spare  man  laughed  a 
boyish  laugh  like  a  mischievous  bird,  and 
tossed  his  head  at  the  jest. 

His  face  was  small  and  sallow  and  tired  ;  but 
the  dark  eyes  were  full  of  fun  and  kindness. 
Presently,  he  rose  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room  with  a  curious,  prancing  walk, 
rolling  himself  a  cigarette,  and  talking  away 
in  a  rapid,  jerky  fashion  with  his  continual, 
"eh,  eh?"  coming  in  all  the  time. 

"  Poor  Gerard  !  So  you  know  him?  How 
is  he  now?"  and  he  lowered  his  voice  with  the 
suggestion  of  a  mutual  confidence,  and  stopped 
in  his  walk  till  Henry  should  answer.  "  Poor 
Gerard!  And  he  might  have  been  —  well, 
well,  —  never  mind.  We  were  together  at 


282  YOUNG   LIVES 

King's.  Brilliant  fellow.  So  you  know  Gerard. 
Dear  me  !  Dear  me  !  " 

Then  he  turned  to  the  subject  of  Henry's  visit. 

"  Well,  my  poor  boy,  nothing  will  satisfy 
you  but  literature?  You  are  determined  to 
be  a  literary  man,  eh,  eh?"  Then  he  stopped 
in  front  of  Henry  and  laid  his  hand  kindly  on 
his  shoulder,  "  Is  it  too  late  to  say,  '  Go  back 
while  there  is  yet  time '  ?  Perhaps  —  of  course 
—  you  're  going  to  be  a  very  great  man,"  and 
he  broke  off  into  his  walk  again,  with  one  of 
his  mischievous  laughs.  "  But  unless  you  are, 
take  my  word,  it 's  a  poor  game  —  Yet,  I  sup- 
pose, it 's  no  use  talking.  I  know,  wasted 
breath,  wasted  breath  —  Well,  now,  what  can 
you  do?  and,  by  the  way,  you  won't  grow 
fat  on  The  Fleet  Street  Review.  Ten  shillings 
a  column  is  our  magnificent  rate  of  payment, 
and  we  can  hardly  afford  that  —  " 

Then  he  began  pulling  out  one  book  and 
another  from  the  piles  of  all  sorts  that  lay 
around  him.  "  I  suppose,  like  the  rest,  you  'd 
better  begin  on  poetry.  There 's  a  tableful 
over  there  —  go  and  take  your  pick  of  it, 
unless,  of  course,  you  've  got  some  special  sub- 
ject. You  're  not,  I  suppose,  an  authority  on 
Assyriology,  eh,  eh?" 


THIS  IS  LONDON,  THIS  IS  LIFE     283 

Henry  feared  not,  and  then  a  new  fit  of 
industry  came  upon  the  editor,  and  he  begged 
Henry  to  take  a  look  at  the  books  while  he 
ran  through  another  proof  for  the  post. 

Thatdusty  table  —  evidently  the  rubbish-heap 
of  the  room  —  was  Henry's  first  object-lesson 
in  the  half  tragical,  half  farcical,  over-produc- 
tion of  modern  literature.  Such  a  mass  of 
foolishness  and  ineptitude  he  had  never  con- 
ceived of;  such  pretentiousness  too  —  and  while 
he  made  various  melancholy  reflections  upon 
human  vanity,  what  should  he  unearth  suddenly 
from  the  heap,  but  his  own  little  volume.  He 
could  but  half  suppress  a  cry  of  recognition. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  editor,  not  turn- 
ing round.  "Found  anything?" 

"  No,"  said  Henry ;  "  nothing  —  for  a  moment 
I  thought  I  had." 

Presently  he  had  made  a  small  pile  of  the 
most  promising  volumes,  and  turned  to  take 
his  leave.  The  editor  took  up  one  or  two  of 
them  carelessly. 

"  Not  much  here,  I  'm  afraid,"  he  said. 
"  Never  mind ;  see  what  you  can  make  of 
them.  Not  more  than  three  columns  at  the 
most,  you  know.  And  come  and  see  me 
again.  I  'm  glad  to  have  seen  you." 


284  YOUNG  LIVES 

"  Oh,"  said  Henry,  on  the  point  of  leaving, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  his  own  little  book, 
"may  I  take  this  one  too?  It's  not  worth 
reviewing,  but  it  rather  interested  me  just 
now." 

"  God  bless  me,  yes,  certainly,"  said  the 
editor;  "you're  welcome  to  the  lot,  if  you 
care  to  bring  a  hand-cart.  Good-bye,  good- 
bye." 

And  Henry  slipped  his  poor  little  neglected 
volume  into  his  pocket.  On  how  many  dusty 
tables,  he  wondered,  was  it  then  lying  igno- 
miniously  disregarded.  Well,  the  day  would 
come !  Meanwhile,  he  had  his  first  batch  of 
books  for  review. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

THE   WITS 

THERE  now  remained  the  gathering  of  wits 
fixed  for  the  evening.  His  publisher  had 
asked  him  to  dinner,  but  he  had  declined, 
from  a  secret  and  absurd  desire  to  dine  at 
"The  Cock."  This  he  gratified,  and  with 
his  mind  full  of  the  spacious  times  of  the 
early  Victorians,  he  turned  into  the  pub- 
lisher's little  room  about  nine  o'clock  to 
meet  some  of  the  later. 

There  was  no  great  muster  as  yet.  Some 
half-a-dozen  rather  shy  young  men  spasmodi- 
cally picked  up  strange  drawings  or  odd-look- 
ing books,  lying  about  on  the  publisher's 
tables,  struggled  maidenly  with  cigars,  sipped 
a  little  whisky  and  soda;  but  little  was  said. 

Among  them  a  pale-faced  lad  of  about  fif- 
teen, miraculously  self-possessed,  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  chimney-piece.  But  soon 
others  began  to  turn  in,  and  by  ten  the  room 


286  YOUNG   LIVES 

was  as  full  of  chatter  and  smoke  as  it  could 
hold.  Not  least  conspicuous  among  the 
talkers  was  the  pale-faced  boy  of  fifteen. 
Henry  had  been  sitting  near  to  him,  and  had 
been  suddenly  startled  by  his  unexpectedly 
breaking  out  into  a  volley  of  learning,  de- 
livered in  a  voice  impressively  deliberate  and 
sententious. 

"  What  a  remarkable  boy  that  is !  "  said 
Henry,  innocently,  to  the  publisher. 

"Yes;  but  he  's  not  quite  a  boy,  — though 
he  's  young  enough.  A  curious  little  creature, 
morbidly  learned.  A  friend  of  mine  says 
that  he  would  like  to  catch  him  and  keep 
him  in  a  bottle,  and  label  it  '  the  learned 
homunculus. ' ' 

"  What  dialect  is  it  he  is  talking  in  ?  "  said 
Henry;  "I  don't  remember  to  have  heard  it 
before." 

The  publisher  smiled:  "My  dear  fellow, 
you  must  be  careful  what  you  say.  That  is 
v/hat  we  call  '  the  Oxford  voice.'  ' 

"How  remarkable!"  said  Henry,  his  atten- 
tion called  off  by  a  being  with  a  face  that  half 
suggested  a  faun,  and  half  suggested  a  flower, 
—  a  small,  olive-skinned  face  crowned  with 
purply  black  hair,  that  kept  falling  in  an  elf- 


THE   WITS  287 

lock  over  his  forehead,  and  violet  eyes  set 
slant-wise.  He  was  talking  earnestly  of 
fairies,  in  a  beautiful  Irish  accent,  and  Henry 
liked  him.  The  attraction  seemed  mutual, 
and  Henry  found  himself  drawn  into  a  remark- 
able relation  about  a  fairy-hill  in  Connemara, 
and  fairy  lights  that  for  several  nights  had 
been  seen  glimmering  about  it;  and  how  at 
last  he  —  that  is,  the  narrator  —  and  a  particu- 
larly hard-headed  friend  of  his  had  kept  watch 
one  moonlit  night,  with  the  result  that  they 
had  actually  seen  and  talked  with  the  queen 
of  the  fairies  and  learned  many  secrets  of 

the .      The   narrator    here   made   use   of 

a  long,  unpronounceable  Irish  word,  which 
Henry  could  not  catch. 

"  I  should  have  explained  some  of  these 
phenomena  to  you,"  whispered  the  publisher 
presently,  noticing  that  Henry  looked  a  little 
bewildered.  "This  is  a  young  Irish  poet, 
who,  in  the  intervals  of  his  raising  the  devil, 
writes  very  beautiful  lyrics  that  he  may  well 
have  learned  from  the  fairies.  It  is  his 
method  to  seem  mad  on  magic  and  such 
things.  You  will  meet  with  many  strange 
methods  here  to-night.  Don't  be  alarmed  if 
some  one  comes  and  talks  to  you  about  strange 


288  YOUNG  LIVES 

sins.  You  have  come  to  London  in  the 
*  strange  sins  '  period.  I  will  explain  after- 
wards. " 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  a  pallid  young 
man,  with  a  preternatural  length  and  narrow- 
ness of  face,  began  to  talk  to  him  about  the 
sins  of  the  Borgias. 

"I  suppose  you  never  committed  a  murder 
yourself?"  he  asked  Henry,  languidly. 

"No,"  said  Henry,  catching  the  spirit  of 
the  foolishness;  "no,  not  yet.  I  am  keeping 
that  —  "  implying  that  he  was  reserving  so 
extreme  a  stimulant  till  all  his  other  vices 
failed  him. 

Presently  there  entered  a  tall  young  man 
with  a  long,  thin  face,  curtained  on  either 
side  with  enormous  masses  of  black  hair,  like 
a  slip  of  the  young  moon  glimmering  through 
a  pine-wood. 

At  the  same  moment  there  entered,  as  if 
by  design,  his  very  antithesis:  a  short,  firmly 
built,  clerkly  fellow,  with  a  head  like  a  bil- 
liard-ball in  need  of  a  shave,  a  big  brown 
moustache,  and  enormous  spectacles. 

"That,"  said  the  publisher,  referring  to 
the  moon-in-the-pine-wood  young  man,  "  is 
our  young  apostle  of  sentiment,  our  new  man 


THE   WITS  289 

of  feeling,  the  best-hated  man  we  have;  and 
the  other  is  our  young  apostle  of  blood.  He 
is  all  for  muscle  and  brutality  —  and  he 
makes  all  the  money.  It  is  one  of  our  many 
fashions  just  now  to  sing  '  Britain  and  Brutal- 
ity. '  But  my  impression  is  that  our  young 
man  of  feeling  will  have  his  day,  —  though 
he  will  have  to  wait  for  it.  He  would  hasten 
it  if  he  would  cut  his  hair;  but  that,  he  says, 
he  will  never  do.  His  hair,  he  says,  is  his 
battle-cry.  Well,  he  enjoys  himself  —  and 
loves  a  fight,  though  you  mightn't  think  it  to 
look  at  him." 

A  supercilious  young  man,  with  pink  cheeks, 
and  a  voice  which  his  admirers  compared  to 
Shelley's,  then  came  up  to  Henry  and  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  Mallarme"s  latest 
sonnet;  but  finding  Henry  confessedly  at 
sea,  turned  the  conversation  to  the  Empire 
ballet,  of  which,  unfortunately,  Henry  knew 
as  little.  The  conversation  then  languished, 
and  the  Shelley-voiced  young  man  turned 
elsewhere  for  sympathy,  with  a  shrug  at  your 
country  bumpkins  who  know  nothing  later 
than  Rossetti. 

In  the  thick  of  the  conversational  turmoil, 
Henry's  attention  had  from  time  to  time  been 
19 


290  YOUNG  LIVES 

attracted  by  the  noise  proceeding  from  a 
blustering,  red-headed  man,  with  a  face  of 
fire. 

"Who  is  that?"  at  last  he  found  oppor- 
tunity to  ask  his  friend. 

"That  is  our  greatest  critic,"  said  the 
publisher. 

"  Oh ! "  said  Henry,  "  I  must  try  and  hear 
what  he  is  saying.  It  seems  important  from 
the  way  he  is  listened  to." 

So  Henry  listened,  and  heard  how  the 
fire-faced  man  said  the  word  "  damn "  with 
great  volubility  and  variety  of  cadence,  and 
other  words  to  the  same  effect,  and  how  the 
little  group  around  him  hung  upon  his  words 
and  said  to  each  other,  "  How  brilliant ! " 
"How  absolute!" 

Henry  turned  to  his  friend.  "The  only 
word  I  can  catch  is  the  word  '  damn, '  "  he  said. 

"That,"  said  the  publisher,  with  a  laugh, 
"  is  the  master-word  of  fashionable  criticism." 

Presently  a  little  talkative  man  came  up, 
and  said  that  he  hoped  Mr.  Mesurier  was  an 
adherent  of  the  rightful  king. 

"  Oh,  of  course  !  "  said  Henry. 

"  And  do  you  belong  to  any  secret  society  ?  " 
asked  the  little  man. 


THE  WITS  291 

Henry  couldn't  say  that  he  did. 

"  Well,  you  must  join  us !  "  he  said. 

"I  suppose  there  won't  be  a  rising  just 
yet?"  asked  Henry,  realising  that  this  was 
the  Jacobite  method. 

"Not  just  yet,"  said  the  little  man,  reas- 
suringly. So  Henry  was  enrolled. 

And  so  it  went  on  till  past  midnight,  when 
Henry  at  last  escaped,  to  talk  it  all  over  with 
the  stars.  The  evening  had  naturally  puzzled 
him,  as  a  man  will  always  be  puzzled  who 
has  developed  under  the  influence  of  the  main 
tendencies  of  his  generation,  and  who  finds 
himself  suddenly  in  a  backwater  of  fanciful 
reaction.  Henry,  in  his  simple  way,  was  a 
thinker  and  a  radical,  and  he  had  nourished 
himself  on  the  great  main-road  masters  of 
English  literature.  He  had  followed  the  lead 
of  modern  philosophers  and  scientists,  and 
had  arrived  at  a  mystical  agnosticism,  —  the 
first  step  of  which  was  to  banish  the  dogmas 
of  the  church  as  old  wives'  tales.  He  con- 
sidered that  he  had  inherited  the  hard-won 
gains  of  the  rationalists.  But  he  came  to 
London  and  found  young  men  feebly  playing 
with  the  fire  of  that  Romanism  which  he 


292  YOUNG  LIVES 

regarded  as  at  once  the  most  childish  and  the 
most  dangerous  of  all  intellectual  obsessions. 
In  an  age  of  great  biologists  and  electricians, 
he  came  upon  children  prettily  talking  about 
fairies  and  the  philosopher's  stone.      In  one 
of   the   greatest   ages  of  English   poetry,   he 
came  to  London  to  find  young  English  poets 
falling  on  their  knees  to  the  metrical  mathe- 
maticians  of   France.      In    the   great    age  of 
democracy,  a  fool  had  come  and  asked  him  if 
he   were   not   a   supporter   of    the    house   of 
Stuart,    a   Jacobite   of   charades.       But   only 
once  had  he  heard   the  name  of   Milton;    it 
was  the  learned  boy  of  fifteen  who  had  quoted 
him,  —  a  lifelong  debt  of  gratitude ;  and  never 
once  had  he  heard  the  voice  of  simple  human 
feeling,  nor  heard  one  speak  of  beauty,  simply, 
passionately,    with   his  heart    in    his  mouth; 
nor  of  love  with  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve. 
Much  cleverness,  much  learning,  much  charm, 
there  had  been,  but  he  had  missed  the  gen- 
erous  human    impulse.      No    one    seemed    to 
be  doing  anything  because  he  must.     These 
were  pleasant  eddies,   dainty  with  lilies  and 
curiously  starred  water-grasses,  but  the  great 
warm    stream   of    English  literature  was  not 
flowing  here. 


THE  WITS  293 

As  he  neared  his  hotel,  he  thought  of  his 
morning  visit  to  Goldsmith's  tomb,  and 
tenfold  he  repented  the  little  half-sneer  with 
which  he  had  bought  the  flowers.  In  a  boyish 
impulse,  he  rang  the  Temple  bell,  and  found 
his  way  again  to  the  lonely  corner.  His 
flowers  were  lying  there  in  the  moonlight, 
and  again  he  read :  "  Here  lies  Oliver  Gold- 
smith." 

"  Forgive  me,  Goldy, "  he  murmured.  "  Well 
may  men  bring  you  flowers,  —  for  you  wrote, 
not  as  those  yonder;  you  wrote  for  the  human 
heart." 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

BACK  TO    REALITY 

IT  was  good  to  get  back  to  reality,  with 
Angel's  blue  eyes,  Mike's  laugh,  and  Esther's 
common  sense. 

"Let  me  look  deep  into  them,  Angel  — 
deep  —  deep.  It  is  so  good  to  get  back  to 
something  true." 

"Are  they  true?"  said  Angel,  opening 
them  very  wide. 

"  Something  that  will  never  forsake  one, 
something  we  can  never  forsake  !  Something 
in  all  the  wide  world's  change  that  will  never 
change.  Something  that  will  still  be  Angel 
even  in  a  thousand  years." 

"  I  hope  to  be  a  real  angel  long  before  that," 
said  Angel,  laughing. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  promise  to  be  true 
so  long,  Angel  ?  "  asked  Henry. 

"Dear,  you  know  that  so  long  as  there  is 
one  little  part  of  me  left  anywhere  in  the 


BACK  TO   REALITY  295 

world,  that  part  will  be  true  to  you.  —  But 
come,  tell  me  about  London.  I  'm  afraid  you 
did  n't  enjoy  it  very  much." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  loved  London,  —  that  is,  old 
London;  but  new  London  made  me  a  little 
sad.  I  expect  it  was  only  because  I  didn't 
quite  understand  the  conditions." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Angel.  "But  tell  me, 
—  did  you  go  to  the  Zoo?" 

"You  dear  child!  Yes!  I  went  out  of 
pure  love  for  you." 

"  Now  you  need  n't  be  so  grown  up.  You 
know  you  wanted  to  go  just  for  yourself  as 
well.  And  you  saw  the  monkey-house?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  lions?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  the  snakes  ?  " 

"Yes!" 

"  Oh,  I  'd  give  anything  to  see  the  snakes  ! 
Did  they  eat  any  rabbits  when  you  were 
there,  —  fascinate  them,  and  then  draw  them 
slowly,  slowly  in  ?  " 

"Angel,  what  terrible  interests  you  are 
developing  !  No,  thank  goodness,  they  didn't. " 

"Why,  wouldn't  it  fascinate  you  to  see 
something  wonderfully  killed  ?  "  asked  Angel. 


296  YOUNG  LIVES 

"  It  is  dreadful  and  wicked,  of  course.  But 
it  would  be  so  thrillingly  real." 

"  I  think  I  must  introduce  you  to  a  young 
man  I  met  in  London,"  said  Henry,  "who 
solemnly  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  murdered 
anyone.  You  savage  little  wild  thing !  I 
suppose  this  is  what  you  mean  by  saying 
sometimes  that  you  are  a  gipsy,  eh  ?  " 

"Well,  and  you  went  to  the  Tower,  and 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  everything,  and  it 
was  really  wonderful  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  saw  everything  —  including  the 
Queen." 

For  young  people  of  Tyre  and  Sidon  to  go 
to  London  was  like  what  it  once  was  to  make 
the  pilgrimage  to  Rome. 

Mike  created  some  valuable  nonsense  on 
the  occasion,  which  unfortunately  has  not 
been  preserved,  and  Esther  was  disgusted 
with  Henry  because  he  could  give  no  intelli- 
gible description  of  the  latest  London  hats ; 
and  all  examined  with  due  reverence  those 
wonderful  books  for  review. 

In  Tichborne  Street  Aunt  Tipping  had 
taken  advantage  of  his  absence  to  enrich  his 
room  with  a  bargain  in  the  shape  of  an  old 
desk,  which  was  the  very  thing  he  wanted. 


BACK  TO   REALITY  297 

Dear  old  Aunt  Tipping !  And  Gerard,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  took  a  little  more  brandy  than 
usual  in  honour  of  his  young  friend's  adven- 
tures in  the  capital. 

These  excitements  over,  Henry  sat  down  at 
his  old  desk  to  write  his  first  review;  and 
there  for  the  present  we  may  leave  him,  for 
he  took  it  very  seriously  and  was  dangerous 
to  interrupt. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE 

MORE  than  a  year  had  now  gone  by  since 
Henry  left  home,  and  meanwhile,  with  the 
exception  of  Dot's  baptism,  there  had  been 
no  exciting  changes  to  record.  Perhaps  un- 
eventfulness  is  part  of  the  security  of  a  real 
home.  Every  morning  James  Mesurier  had 
risen  at  half-past  six,  — though  he  no  longer 
imposed  that  hour  of  rising  upon  his  daughters, 
—  breakfasted  at  eight,  and  reached  his  office 
at  nine.  Every  evening  during  those  months, 
punctually  at  half-past  six  his  latch-key  had 
rattled  in  the  front-door  lock,  and  one  or 
other  of  his  daughters  had  hurried  out  at  the 
sound  to  bid  him  welcome  home. 

"  Home  at  last,  father  dear !  "  they  had 
said,  helping  him  off  with  his  coat;  and 
sometimes  when  he  felt  bright  he  would 
answer,  • — • 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  night  brings  crows  home. " 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     299 

"Home  again,  James!"  his  wife  would 
say,  as  he  next  entered  the  front  parlour, 
and  bent  down  to  kiss  her  where  she  sat. 
"It's  a  long  day.  Isn't  it  time  you  were 
pulling  in  a  bit?  Surely  some  of  the  younger 
heads  should  begin  to  relieve  you." 

"Responsibility,  Mary  dear!  We  cannot 
delegate  responsibility,"  he  would  answer. 

"But  we  see  nothing  of  you.  You  just 
sacrifice  your  whole  life  for  the  business." 

If  he  were  in  a  good  humour,  he  might 
answer  with  one  of  his  rare  sweet  laughs,  and 
jokingly  make  one  of  his  few  French  quota- 
tions :  "  Telle  est  la  vie  !  my  dear,  Telle  est  la 
•vie!  That's  the  French  for  it,  isn't  it, 
Dot?" 

James  Mesurier  was  just  perceptibly  soften- 
ing. Perhaps  it  was  that  he  was  growing  a 
little  tired,  that  he  was  no  longer  quite  the 
stern  disciplinarian  we  met  in  the  first 
chapter;  perhaps  the  influence  of  his  wife, 
and  his  experiences  with  his  children,  were 
beginning  to  hint  to  him  what  it  takes  so 
long  for  a  strong  individual  nature  to  learn, 
that  the  law  of  one  temperament  cannot 
justly  or  fruitfully  be  enforced  as  the  law  of 
another. 


300  YOUNG  LIVES 

The  younger  children  —  Esther  and  Dot  and 
Mat  used  sometimes  to  say  to  each  other  — 
would  grow  up  in  a  more  clement  atmosphere 
of  home  than  had  been  Henry's  and  theirs. 
Already  they  were  quietly  assuming  privi- 
leges, and  nothing  said,  that  would  have 
meant  beatings  for  their  elders.  For  these 
things  had  Henry  and  Esther  gladly  faced 
martyrdom.  Henry  had  looked  on  the  Prom- 
ised Land,  but  been  denied  an  entrance  there. 
By  his  stripes  this  younger  generation  would 
be  healed. 

The  elder  girls  hastened  to  draw  close  to 
their  father  in  gratitude,  and  home  breathed 
a  kinder,  freer  air  than  ever  had  been  known 
before.  Between  Esther  and  her  father  par- 
ticularly a  kind  of  comradeship  began  to 
spring  up,  which  perhaps  more  than  ever 
made  the  mother  miss  her  boy. 

But,  all  the  same,  home  was  growing  old. 
This  was  the  kindness  of  the  setting  sun ! 

Childless  middle  age  is  no  doubt  often 
dreary  to  contemplate,  yet  is  it  an  egoistical 
bias  which  leads  one  to  find  in  such  limita- 
tion, or  one  might  rather  say  preservation,  of 
the  ego,  a  certain  compensation?  The  child- 
less man  or  woman  has  at  least  preserved  his 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     301 

or  her  individuality,  as  few  fathers  and  mothers 
of  large  families  are  suffered  to  do.  By  the 
time  you  are  fifty,  with  a  family  of  half  a 
dozen  children,  you  have  become  compara- 
tively impersonal  as  "father"  or  "mother." 
It  is  tacitly  recognised  that  your  life-work  is 
finished,  that  your  ambitions  are  accom- 
plished or  not,  and  that  your  hopes  are  at  an 
end. 

The  young  Mesuriers,  for  example,  were 
all  eagerly  hastening  towards  their  several 
futures.  They  were  garrulous  over  them  at 
every  meal.  But  to  what  future  in  this  world 
were  James  and  Mary  Mesurier  looking  for- 
ward? Love  had  blossomed  and  brought 
forth  fruit,  but  the  fruit  was  quickly  ripen- 
ing, and  stranger  hands  would  soon  pluck  it 
from  the  boughs.  In  a  very  few  years  they 
would  sit  under  a  roof-tree  bared  of  fruit  and 
blossom,  and  sad  with  falling  leaves.  They 
had  dreamed  their  dream,  and  there  is  only 
one  such  dream  for  a  lifetime;  now  they  must 
sit  and  listen  to  the  dreams  of  their  children, 
help  them  to  build  theirs.  They  mattered 
now  no  longer  for  themselves,  but  just  as  so 
much  aid  and  sympathy  on  which  their  chil- 
dren might  draw.  Too  well  in  their  hearts 


302  YOUNG   LIVES 

they  knew  that  their  children  only  heard 
them  with  patience  so  long  as  they  talked  of 
their  to-morrows.  Should  they  sometimes 
dwell  wistfully  on  their  own  yesterdays,  they 
could  too  plainly  see  how  long  the  story 
seemed. 

Telle  est  la  vie!  as  James  Mesurier  said, 
and,  that  being  so,  no  wonder  life  is  a  sad 
business.  Better  perhaps  be  childless  and 
retain  one's  own  personal  hopes  and  fears  for 
life,  than  be  so  relegated  to  history  in  the 
very  zenith  of  one's  days.  If  only  this  younger 
generation  at  the  door  were  always,  as  it 
assumes,  stronger  and  better  than  its  elder ! 
but,  though  the  careless  assumption  that  it  is 
so  is  somewhat  general,  history  alone  shows 
how  false  and  impudent  the  assumption  often 
is.  Too  often  genius  itself  must  submit  to 
the  silly  presumption  of  its  noisy  and  fatuous 
children,  and  it  is  the  young  fool  who  too 
often  knocks  imperiously  at  the  door  of  wise 
and  active  middle  age. 

That  all  this  is  inevitable  makes  it  none 
the  less  sad.  The  young  Mesuriers  were 
neither  fools  nor  hard  of  heart;  and  some- 
times, in  moments  of  sympathy,  their  parents 
would  be  revealed  to  them  in  sudden  lights 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     303 

of  pathos  and  old  romance.  They  would  listen 
to  some  old  love-affair  of  their  mother's  as 
though  it  had  been  their  own,  or  go  out  of 
their  way  to  make  their  father  tell  once  more 
the  epic  of  the  great  business  over  which  he 
presided,  and  which,  as  he  conceived  it,  was 
doubtless  a  greater  poem  than  his  son  would 
ever  write.  Yet  still  even  in  such  genuine 
sympathy,  there  was  a  certain  imaginative 
effort  to  be  made.  The  gulf  beween  the  gen- 
erations, however  hidden  for  the  moment,  was 
always  there. 

Yet,  after  all,  James  and  Mary  Mesurier 
possessed  an  incorruptible  treasure,  which 
their  children  had  neither  given  nor  could 
take  away.  To  regard  them  as  without  future 
would  be  a  shallow  observation,  —  for  love 
has  always  a  future,  however  old  in  mortal 
years  it  may  have  grown ;  and  as  they  grew 
older,  their  love  seemed  to  grow  stronger. 
Involuntarily  they  seemed  to  draw  closer 
together,  as  by  an  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion. Their  love  had  been  before  their  chil- 
dren; were  they  to  be  spared,  it  would  still 
be  the  same  love,  sweeter  by  trial,  when 
their  children  had  passed  from  them.  In  this 
love  had  been  wise  for  them.  Some  parents 


304  YOUNG  LIVES 

love  their  children  so  unwisely  that  they 
forget  to  love  each  other;  and,  when  the 
children  forsake  them,  are  left  disconsolate. 
One  has  heard  young  mothers  say  that  now 
their  boy  has  come,  their  husbands  may  take 
a  second  place;  and  often  of  late  we  have 
heard  the  woman  say :  "  Give  me  but  the  child, 
and  the  lover  can  go  his  ways."  Foolish, 
unprophetic  women !  Let  but  twenty  years 
go  by,  and  how  glad  you  will  be  of  that 
rejected  lover;  for,  though  a  son  may  suffice 
for  his  mother,  what  mother  has  ever  sufficed 
for  her  son  ? 

But  though  sometimes,  as  they  looked  at 
their  parents,  the  young  Mesuriers  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  infinite  sadness  of  a  life-work 
accomplished,  yet  it  failed  to  warn  them 
against  the  eager  haste  with  which  they  were 
hurrying  on  towards  a  like  conclusion.  Too 
late  they  would  understand  that  all  the  joy 
was  in  the  doing;  too  soon  say  to  themselves: 
"  Was  it  for  this  that  our  little  world  shook 
with  such  fiery  commotion  and  molten  ardours, 
that  this  present  should  be  so  firm  and  insen- 
sitive beneath  our  feet?  This  habit  —  why, 
it  was  once  a  passion !  This  fact  —  why,  it 
was  once  a  dream  ! " 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     305 

Oh,  why  shake  off  youth's  fragile  blossoms 
with  the  very  speed  of  your  own  impatience  ! 
Why  make  such  haste  towards  autumn !  Who 
ever  thought  the  ruddiest  lapful  of  apples  a 
fair  exchange  for  a  cloud  of  sunlit  blossom  ? 
Whose  maturity,  however  laden  with  prosper- 
ity or  gilded  with  honour,  ever  kept  the  fairy 
promise  of  his  youth?  For  so  brief  a  space 
youth  glitters  like  a  dewdrop  on  the  tree  of 
life,  glitters  and  is  gone.  For  one  desperate 
instant  of  perfection  it  hangs  poised,  and  is 
seen  no  more. 

But,  alas !  the  art  of  enjoying  youth  with  a 
wise  economy  is  only  learnt  when  youth  is 
over.  It  is  perhaps  too  paradoxical  an  accom- 
plishment to  be  learnt  before ;  for  a  youth 
that  economised  itself  would  be  already 
middle  age.  It  is  just  the  wasteful  flare  of  it 
that  leaves  such  a  dazzle  in  old  eyes,  as  they 
look  back  in  fancy  to  the  conflagration  of 
fragrant  fire  which  once  bourgeoned  and  sang 
where  these  white  ashes  now  slowly  smoulder 
towards  extinction. 

When  Mike  has  a  theatre  of  his  own  and 
can  send  boxes  to  his  friends,  when  Henry 
maybe  is  an  editor  of  power,  when  Esther 
and  Ansel  are  the  enthroned  wives  of  famous 


306  YOUNG   LIVES 

men,  and  the  new  heaven  and  the  new  earth 
are  quite  finished, —  will  they  never  sigh  some- 
times to  have  the  making  of  them  all  over 
again?  Then  they  will  have  everything  to 
enjoy,  so  there  will  be  nothing  left  to  hope 
for.  Then  there  will  be  no  spice  of  peril  in 
their  loves,  no  keen  edge  that  comes  of  en- 
forced denial;  and  the  game  of  life  will  be 
too  sure  for  ambition  to  keep  its  savour. 
"  There  is  no  thrill,  no  excitement  nowa- 
days,"  one  can  almost  fancy  their  saying,  and, 
like  children  playing  with  their  bricks,  "Now 
let  us  knock  it  all  down,  and  build  another 
one.  It  will  be  such  fun." 

However,  these  are  intrusive,  autumnal 
thoughts  in  this  book  of  simple  youth,  and 
our  young  people  knew  them  not.  They  were 
far  indeed  from  Esther's  mind  as  she  talked 
with  Dot  of  the  future  one  afternoon.  In- 
stead, her  words  were  full  of  impatience  with 
the  slow  march  of  events,  and  the  enforced 
inactivity  of  a  girl's  life  at  home. 

"It  is  so  much  easier  for  the  boys,"  she 
was  saying.  "  There  is  something  for  them  to 
do.  But  we  can  do  nothing  but  sit  at  home 
and  wait,  darn  their  socks,  and  clap  our  hands 
at  their  successes.  I  wish  I  were  a  man  !  " 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     307 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  Dot;  "for  then  you 
couldn't  marry  Mike.  And  you  couldn't 
wear  pretty  dresses  —  Oh  !  and  lots  of  things. 
I  don't  much  envy  a  man's  life,  after  all. 
It's  all  very  well  talking  about  hard  work 
\vhen  you  haven't  got  to  do  it;  and  it's  not 
so  much  the  work  as  the  responsibility.  It 
must  be  such  a  responsibility  to  be  a  man." 

"Of  course  you're  right,  Dot  —  but,  oh! 
this  waiting  is  so  stupid,  all  the  same.  If 
only  I  could  be  doing  something  —  any- 
thing!" 

"Well,  you  are  doing  something.  Is  it 
nothing  to  be  all  the  world  to  a  man  ? "  said 
Dot,  wistfully;  "nothing  to  be  his  heaven 
upon  earth?  Nothing  to  be  the  prize  he  is 
working  for,  and  nothing  to  sustain  and  cheer 
him  on,  as  you  do  Mike,  and  as  Angel  cheers 
Henry?  Would  Henry  have  been  the  same 
without  Angel,  or  Mike  the  same  without 
you?  No,  the  man's  work  makes  more  noise, 
but  the  woman's  work  is  none  the  less  real 
and  useful  because  it  is  quiet  and  under- 
ground. " 

"Dear  Dot,  what  a  wise  old  thing  you're 
growing!  But  you  know  you're  longing  all 
the  time  for  some  work  to  do  yourself.  Did  n't 


308  YOUNG   LIVES 

you  say  the  other  day  that  you  seemed  to  be 
wasting  your  life  here,  making  beds  and  doing 
housework? " 

"Yes;  but  I  'm  different.  Don't  you  see?" 
retorted  Dot,  sadly.  "I've  got  no  Mike. 
Your  work  is  to  help  Mike  be  a  great  actor, 
but  I  've  got  no  one  to  help  be  anything. 
You  may  be  sure  I  would  n't  complain  of 
being  idle  if  I  had.  I  think  you  're  a  bit  for- 
getful sometimes  how  happy  you  are." 

"  Poor  old  Dot !  you  need  n't  talk  as  if 
you  're  such  a  desperate  old  maid,  —  you  're 
not  twenty  yet.  And  I'm  sure  it's  a  good 
thing  for  you  that  you  haven't  got  any  of  the 
young  men  about  here  —  to  help  be  aldermen  ! 
Wait  till  you  come  and  stay  with  us  in  London, 
then  you'll  soon  find  some  one  to  work  for, 
as  you  call  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Dot,  thoughtfully; 
"somehow  I  think  I  shall  never  marry." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  you  'd  rather  be  a  nun 
or  something  serious  of  that  sort." 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  been  think- 
ing lately  if  perhaps  I  could  n't  do  something, 
—  perhaps  go  into  a  hospital,  or  something  of 
that  sort." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Dot !    Think  of  all  the  hor- 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     309 

rible,  dirty  people  you  'd  have  to  attend  to. 
Ugh!" 

"Christ  didn't  think  of  that  when  He 
washed  the  feet  of  His  disciples,"  said  little 
Dot,  sententiously. 

"  Why,  Dot,  how  dreadfully  religious  you  're 
getting!  You  want  a  good  shaking!  Besides, 
isn't  it  a  little  impious  to  imply  that  the 
apostles  were  horrible,  dirty  people?" 

"You  know  what  I  meant,"  said  Dot, 
flushing. 

"Yes,  of  course,  dear;  and  I  think  I  know 
where  you  've  been.  You  've  been  to  see  that 
dear  Sister  Agatha." 

"  You  admit  she  's  a  dear  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  do;  but  I  don't  know  whether 
she  's  quite  good  for  you." 

"  If  you  'd  only  seen  her  among  the  poor 
little  children  the  other  day,  how  beautiful 
and  how  happy  she  looked,  you  might  have 
thought  differently,"  said  Dot. 

"Oh,  yes,  dear;  but  then  you  mustn't  for- 
get that  her  point  of  view  is  different.  She  's 
renounced  the  world;  she's  one  of  those 
women,"  Esther  couldn't  resist  adding,  mali- 
ciously, "who've  given  up  hope  of  man,  and 
so  have  set  all  their  hopes  on  God." 


3io  YOUNG  LIVES 

"Esther,  that's  unworthy  of  you  —  though 
what  if  it  is  as  you  say,  is  it  so  great  a  failure 
after  all  to  dedicate  one's  self  to  God  rather 
than  to  one  little  individual  man?  " 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Esther,  rather  wilfully 
misunderstanding,  and  suddenly  flushing  up, 
"Mike  is  not  so  little  as  all  that!" 

"  Why,  you  goose,  how  earthly  you  are !  I 
never  thought  of  dear  Mike  —  though  it  would 
have  served  you  right  for  saying  such  a  mean 
thing  about  Sister  Agatha." 

"  Forgive  me.  I  know  it  was  mean,  but  I 
couldn't  resist  it.  And  it  is  true,  you'll 
admit,  of  some  of  those  pious  women,  though 
I  withdraw  it  about  Sister  Agatha." 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  be  a  sister  like 
Sister  Agatha,"  said  Dot,  "without  being  a 
Catholic  as  well;  but  I  might  be  a  nurse  at 
one  of  the  ordinary  hospitals." 

"It  would  be  dreadfully  hard  work!"  said 
Esther. 

"  Harder  than  being  a  man,  do  you  think  ? " 
asked  Dot,  laughing. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  don't  turn  Catholic!" 
said  Esther,  in  some  alarm.  "  That  would 
break  father's  heart,  if  you  like." 

A  horror  of  Catholicism  ran  in  the  very 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     311 

marrow  of  these  young  people.  It  was  one  of 
the  few  relics  of  their  father's  Puritanism 
surviving  in  them.  Of  "  Catholics  "  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  speak  since  childhood  as 
of  nightmares  and  Red  Indians  with  bloody 
scalps  at  their  waists ;  and  perhaps  that  in- 
stinctive terror  of  the  subtle  heart  of  Rome 
is  the  religious  prejudice  which  we  will  do 
well  to  part  with  last. 

Dot  had  not,  indeed,  contemplated  an 
apostacy  so  unnatural;  bnt  beneath  these 
comparatively  trivial  words  there  was  an  ever- 
growing impulse  to  fulfil  that  old  longing  of 
her  nature  to  do  something,  as  the  Christians 
would  say,  "for  God,"  something  serious,  in 
return  for  the  solemn  and  beautiful  gift  of 
life.  By  an  accident,  she  had  met  Sister 
Agatha  one  day  in  the  house  of  an  old  Irish 
servant  of  theirs,  who  had  been  compelled  to 
leave  them  on  account  of  ill-health,  and  on 
whom  she  had  called  with  a  little  present  of 
fruit.  She  had  been  struck  by  the  sweetness 
of  the  Sister's  face,  as  the  Sister  had  been 
struck  by  hers.  Sister  Agatha  had  invited 
Dot  to  visit  her  some  day  at  the  home  for 
orphan  children  of  which  she  had  charge; 
and,  with  some  misgiving  as  to  whether  it  was 


312  YOUNG   LIVES 

right  thus  to  visit  a  Catholic,  whether  even  it 
was  safe,  Dot  had  accepted.  So  an  acquaint- 
ance had  grown  up  and  ripened  into  a  friend- 
ship; and  Sister  Agatha,  while  making  no 
attempt  to  turn  the  friendship  to  the  account 
of  her  church,  was  a  great  consolation  to  the 
lonely,  religious  girl. 

Dot  retained  too  much  rationalism  ever  to 
become  a  Catholic,  but  the  longing  to  do 
something  grew  and  grew.  At  a  certain 
moment,  with  each  new  generation  of  girls, 
there  comes  an  epidemical  desire  in  maiden 
bosoms  to  dedicate  their  sweet  young  lives 
to  the  service  of  what  Esther  called  "horrible 
dirty  people."  At  these  periods  the  hospitals 
are  flooded  with  applications  from  young 
girls  whom  the  vernal  equinox  urges  first  to 
be  mothers,  and,  failing  motherhood,  nurses. 
Just  before  she  met  Henry,  Angel  had  done 
her  best  to  miss  him  by  frantic  endeavours  to 
nurse  people  whom  the  hospital  doctors  decided 
she  was  far  too  slight  a  thing  to  lift,  —  for 
unless  you  can  lift  your  patients,  not  to  say 
throw  them  about,  you  fail  in  the  muscular 
qualifications  of  a  hospital  nurse.  Dot,  as 
we  have  seen,  was  impelled  in  this  direction 
from  no  merely  sentimental  impulse,  unless 


THE   OLD   HOME   MEANWHILE     313 

the  religious  impulse,  which  paradoxically 
makes  nuns  of  disappointed  mothers,  may  so 
be  called.  Perhaps,  unacknowledged,  deep 
down  in  her  heart,  she  longed  to  be  the  nurse 
— of  one  little  wonderful  child.  Had  this  been 
granted  her,  it  is  probable  that  the  maimed 
and  the  halt  would  have  had  less  attraction 
for  her  pitying  imagination.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, she  persuaded  herself  that  she  loved 
them.  Was  it  because,  at  the  moment,  no 
one  else  seemed  to  need  her  love? 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

STAGE   WAITS,   MR.    LAFLIN 

ESTHER'S  impatience  was  to  be  appeased, 
perhaps  a  little  to  her  regret  after  all,  by  an 
unexpected  remission  of  the  time  appointed 
between  Mike  and  his  first  real  engagement. 
Suddenly  one  day  came  an  exciting  letter  from 
the  great  actor,  saying  that  he  saw  his  way 
to  giving  him  a  part  in  his  own  London  com- 
pany, if  he  could  join  him  for  rehearsal  in  a 
week's  time. 

Here  was  news  !  At  last  a  foundation-stone 
of  the  new  heaven  was  to  be  laid  !  In  a  week's 
time  Mike  would  be  working  at  one  of  the 
alabaster  walls.  Perhaps  in  two  years'  time, 
perhaps  even  in  a  year,  with  good  fortune,  the 
roof  would  be  on,  the  door  wreathed  with  gar- 
lands, and  a  modest  little  heaven  ready  for 
occupation. 

Now  all  that  remained  was  to  make  the 
momentous  break  with  the  old  life.  Old  Mr. 


STAGE   WAITS,   MR.   LAFLIN     315 

Laflin  had  been  left  in  peaceful  ignorance  of 
the  mine  which  must  now  be  exploded  be- 
neath his  evening  armchair.  Mike  loved  his 
father,  and  this  had  been  a  dread  long  and 
wisely  postponed.  But  now,  when  the  mo- 
ment for  inevitable  decision  had  come,  Mike 
remembered,  with  a  certain  shrinking,  that 
responsibility  of  which  Dot  had  spoken,  —  the 
responsibility  of  being  a  man.  It  was  his 
dream  to  be  an  actor,  to  earn  his  bread  with 
joy.  To  earn  it  with  less  than  joy  seemed 
unworthy  of  man.  Yet  there  was  another 
dream  for  him,  still  more,  immeasurably  more, 
important  —  to  be  Esther's  husband.  If  he 
stayed  where  he  was,  in  slow  revolutions  of  a 
dull  business,  his  father's  place  and  income 
would  become  his.  If  he  renounced  that 
certain  prospect,  he  committed  himself  to  a 
destiny  of  brilliant  chances ;  and  for  the  first 
time  he  realised  that  among  those  chances 
lurked,  too,  the  chance  of  failure.  Esther 
must  decide ;  and  Henry's  counsel,  too,  must 
be  taken.  Mike  thought  he  knew  what  the 
decision  and  the  counsel  would  be ;  and,  of 
course,  he  was  not  mistaken. 

"Why,  Mike,  how  can  you  hesitate?"  said 
Esther.    "  Fail,  if  you  like,  and  I  shall  still  love 


316  YOUNG   LIVES 

you ;  but  you  don't  surely  think  I  could  go 
on  loving  a  man  who  was  frightened  to  try  ? " 

That  was  a  little  hard  of  Esther,  for  Mike's 
fear  had  been  for  her  sake,  not  his  own. 
However,  that  and  the  even  more  vehement 
counsel  of  Henry  had  the  desired  bracing 
effect;  and  Mike  nerved  himself  to  deal  the 
necessary  blow  at  his  father's  tranquillity. 

As  the  writer  of  this  book  takes  no  special 
joy  in  heart-breaking  scenes  with  fathers,  the 
painful  and  somewhat  violent  scene  with  Mr. 
Laflin  is  here  omitted,  and  left  to  the  imagi- 
nation of  any  reader  with  a  taste  for  such 
unnatural  collisions.  Any  one  over  thirty  will 
agree  that  all  the  reason  was  on  Mr.  Laflin's 
side,  as  all  the  instinct  was  on  his  son's. 
Luckily  for  Mike,  the  instinct  was  to  prove 
genuine,  and  his  father  to  live  to  be  prouder 
of  his  rebellion  than  ever  he  would  have  been 
of  his  obedience. 

This  scene  over,  it  was  only  a  matter  of 
days  —  five  alone  were  left  —  before  Mike  must 
up  and  away  in  right  good  earnest. 

"  Oh,  Mike,"  said  Esther,  "you  're  sure  you  '11 
go  on  loving  me?  I'm  awfully  frightened  of 
those  pretty  girls  in 's  company." 

"You    needn't   be,"    said    Mike;     "there's 


STAGE   WAITS,   MR.   LAFLIN     317 

only  one  girl  in  the  world  will  look  at  a  funny 
bit  of  a  thing  like  me." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Esther,  laughing, 
"some  big  girls  have  such  strange  tastes." 

"Well,  let's  hope  that  before  many  months 
you  can  come  and  look  after  me." 

"  If  we  'd  only  a  certain  five  pounds  a  week, 
we  could  get  along,  —  anything  to  be  together. 
Of  course,  we  'd  have  to  be  economical  — " 
said  Esther,  thoughtfully. 

On  the  last  night  but  one  before  his  leaving, 
it  was  Mike's  turn  for  a  farewell  dinner.  Half- 
a-dozen  of  his  best  friends  assembled  at  the 
"  Golden  Bee,"  and  toasts  and  tears  were  min- 
gled to  do  him  honour.  Henry  happily  caught 
the  general  feeling  of  the  occasion  in  the  fol- 
lowing verses,  not  hitherto  printed.  Henry 
was  too  much  in  earnest  at  the  time  to  regard 
the  bathos  of  rhyming  "stage  waits  "  with  such 
dignities  as  "  summoning  fates,"  except  for 
which  naivetf  the  poem  is  perhaps  not  a  bad 
example  of  sincere,  occasional  verse : 

Dear  Mike,  at  last  the  wished  hour  draws  nigh  — 
Weary,  indeed,  the  watching  of  a  sky 
For  golden  portent  tarrying  afar; 
But  here  to-night  we  hail  your  risen  star, 
To-night  we  hear  the  cry  of  summoning  fates  — 
Stage  waits  ! 


3i3  YOUNG   LIVES 

Stage  -waits  /  and  we  who  love  our  brother  so 
Would  keep  him  not;  but  only  ere  he  go, 
Led  by  the  stars  along  the  untried  ways, 
We  *d  hold  his  hand  in  ours  a  little  space, 
With  grip  of  love  that  girdeth  up  the  heart, 
And  kiss  of  eyes  that  give  th  strength  to  part. 

Some  of  your  lovers  may  be  half  afraid 
To  bid  you  forth,  for  fear  of  pitfalls  laid 
About  your  feet ;  but  we  have  no  such  fears, 
That  cry  is  as  a  trumpet  in  our  ears  ; 
We  dare  not,  would  not,  mock  those  summoning  fates  — 
Stage  waits  ! 

Stage  waits  !  and  shall  you  fear  and  make  delay  ? 
Yes  !  when  the  mariner  who  long  time  lay, 
Waiting  the  breeze,  shall  anchor  when  it  blows  ; 
Yes  !  when  a  thirsty  summer-flower  shall  close 
Against  the  rain;  or  when,  in  reaping  days, 
The  husbandman  shall  set  his  fields  ablaze. 

Nay,  take  yottr  breeze,  drink  in  your  strengthening  rain, 
And,  while  you  can,  make  harvest  of  your  grain; 
The  land  is  fair  to  which  that  breeze  shall  blow, 
The  flower  is  sweet  the  rain  shall  set  aglow, 
The  grain  be  rich  within  your  garner  gates  — 
Stage  waits  / 

Stage  waits  !  and  we  must  loosen  now  your  hand, 
And  miss  your  face's  gold  in  all  our  land; 
But  yet  we  know  that  in  a  little  while 
You  come  again  a  conqueror,  so  smile 
Godspeed,  not  parting,  and,  with  hearts  elate, 
We  wait. 


STAGE   WAITS,   MR.   LAFLIN     319 

Yes,  for  the  second  time  the  die  was  cast. 
Henry  was  already  afoot  on  the  adventure 
perilous.  Now  it  was  Mike's  turn.  These 
young  people  had  passionately  invoked  those 
terrible  gods  who  fulfil  our  dreams,  and 
already  the  celestial  machinery  was  begin- 
ning to  move  in  answer.  Perhaps  it  just  a 
little  took  their  breath,  to  see  the  great  wheels 
so  readily  turning  at  the  touch  of  their  young 
hands ;  but  they  were  in  for  it  now,  and  with 
stout  hearts  must  abide  the  issue. 

This  was  to  be  Esther  and  Mike's  first  ex- 
perience of  parting,  and  their  hearts  sickened 
at  the  thought.  Love  surely  does  well  in  this 
world,  so  full  of  snares  and  dangers,  to  fear  to 
lose  from  its  eyes  for  a  moment  the  face  of  its 
beloved ;  and  in  this  respect  the  courage  of 
love  is  the  more  remarkable.  How  bravely  it 
takes  the  appalling  risks  of  life  !  To  separate 
for  an  hour  may  mean  that  never  as  long  as 
the  world  lasts  will  love  hear  the  voice  it  loves 
again.  "  Good-bye,"  love  has  called  gaily  so 
often,  and  waved  hands  from  the  threshold, 
and  the  beloved  has  called  "  good-bye  "  and 
waved,  and  smiled  back  —  for  the  last  time. 
And  yet  love  faces  the  fears,  not  only  of 
hours,  but  of  weeks  and  months;  weeks  and 


320  YOUNG   LIVES 

months  on  seas  bottomless  with  danger,  in 
lands  rife  with  unknown  evils,  dizzily  taking 
the  chances  of  desperate  occupations.  And 
the  courage  is  the  greater,  because,  finally,  in 
this  world,  love  alone  has  anything  to  lose. 
Other  losses  may  be  more  or  less  repaired  ;  but 
love's  loss  is,  of  its  essence,  irreparable.  Other 
fair  faces  and  brave  hearts  the  world  may  bring 
us,  but  never  that  one  face  !  Alas  !  for  the  most 
precious  of  earthly  things,  the  only  precious 
thing  of  earth,  there  is  no  system  of  insurance. 
The  many  waters  have  quenched  love,  and  the 
floods  drowned  it,  —  yet  in  the  wide  world  is 
there  no  help,  no  hope,  no  recompense. 

The  love  that  bound  this  little  circle  of 
young  people  together  was  so  strong  and 
warm  that  it  had  developed  in  them  an  almost 
painful  sensibility  to  such  risks  of  loss.  So  it 
was  that  expressions  of  affection  and  outward 
endearments  were  more  current  among  them 
than  is  usual  in  a  land  where  manners,  from  a 
proper  fear  of  exaggeration,  run  to  a  silly  ex- 
treme of  unresponsiveness.  They  never  met 
without  showing  their  joy  to  be  again  together ; 
never  parted  without  that  inner  fear  that  this 
might  be  their  last  chance  of  showing  their 
love  for  each  other. 


STAGE   WAITS,   MR.   LAFLIN     321 

"  You  all  say  good-bye  as  if  you  were  going 
to  America!"  Myrtilla  Williamson  had  once 
said ;  "  I  suppose  it 's  your  Irish  grand- 
mother." And  no  doubt  the  empressement 
had  its  odd  side  for  those  who  saw  only  the 
surface. 

Thus  for  those  who  love  love,  who  love  to 
watch  for  it  on  human  faces,  Mike's  good-bye 
at  the  railway  station  was  a  sight  worth  going 
far  to  see. 

"  My  word,  they  seem  to  be  fond  of  each 
other,  these  young  people !  "  said  a  lady  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  next  carriage. 

Mike  was  leaning  through  the  window,  and 
Esther  was  pressing  near  to  him.  They  mur- 
mured low  to  each  other,  and  their  eyes  were 
bright  with  tears.  A  little  apart  stood  a  small 
group,  in  which  Henry  and  Angel  and  Ned 
were  conspicuous,  and  Mike's  sisters  and  Dot 
and  Mat  were  there.  A  callous  observer 
might  have  laughed,  so  sad  and  solemn  they 
were.  Mike's  fun  tried  a  rally ;  but  his  jests 
fell  spiritless.  It  was  not  so  much  a  parting, 
one  might  have  thought,  as  a  funeral.  Little 
was  said,  but  eyes  were  eloquent,  either  with 
tears,  or  with  long  strong  glances  that  meant 
undying  faithfulness  all  round;  and  Mike  knew 


322  YOUNG  LIVES 

that  Henry's  eyes  were  quoting  "  Allans! 
after  the  great  Companions,  and  to  belong  to 
them !  " 

Henry's  will  to  achieve  was  too  strong  for 
him  to  think  of  this  as  a  parting;  he  could 
only  think  of  it  as  a  glorious  beginning. 
There  is  something  impersonal  in  ambition, 
and  in  the  absorption  of  the  work  to  be  done 
the  ambitious  man  forgets  his  merely  individ- 
ual sensibilities.  To  achieve,  though  the 
heavens  fall,  —  that  was  Henry's  ambition  for 
Mike  and  for  himself. 

No  one  really  believed  that  the  train  would 
have  the  hard-heartedness  to  start ;  but  at  last, 
with  deliberate  intention,  evidently  not  to  be 
swayed  by  human  pity,  the  guard  set  the 
estranging  whistle  to  his  lips,  cold  and  inex- 
orable as  Nero  turning  down  the  thumb  of 
death,  and  surely  Mike's  sad  little  face  began 
to  move  away  from  them.  Hands  reached 
out  to  him,  eyes  streamed,  handkerchiefs  flut- 
tered,—  but  nothing  could  hold  him  back; 
and  when  at  last  a  curve  in  the  line  had  swal- 
lowed the  white  speck  of  his  face,  they  turned 
away  from  the  dark  gulf  where  the  train  had 
been  as  though  it  were  a  newly  opened  grave. 

A  great  to-do  to  make  about  a  mere  part- 


STAGE  WAITS,   MR.   LAFLIN     323 

ing !  —  says  someone.  No  doubt,  my  dear 
sir !  All  depends  upon  one's  standard  of 
value.  No  doubt  these  young  people  weighed 
life  in  fantastic  scales.  Their  standard  of 
value  was,  no  doubt,  uncommon.  To  love 
each  other  was  better  than  rubies ;  to  lose  each 
other  was  bitter  as  death.  For  others  other 
values,  —  they  had  found  their  only  realities  in 
the  human  affections. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ESTHER  AND    HENRY   ONCE   MORE 

YES,  Mike  had  really  gone.  Henceforth  for 
ever  so  long,  he  would  only  exist  for  Esther  in 
letters,  or  as  a  sad  little  voice  at  the  end  of  a 
wire.  It  had  been  arranged  that  Henry  should 
take  Esther  with  him  for  dinner  that  evening 
to  the  brightest  restaurant  in  Tyre.  He  was  a 
great  believer  in  being  together,  and  also  in 
dinner,  as  comforters  of  your  sad  heart.  Per- 
haps, too,  he  was  a  little  glad  to  feel  Esther 
leaning  gently  upon  him  once  more.  Their 
love  was  too  sure  and  lasting  and  ever-present 
to  have  many  opportunities  of  being  dramatic. 
Nature  does  not  make  a  fuss  about  gravitation. 
One  of  the  most  wonderful  and  powerful  of 
laws,  it  is  yet  of  all  laws  the  most  retiring. 
Gravitation  never  decks  itself  in  rainbows,  nor 
does  it  vaunt  its  undoubted  strength  in  thun- 
der. It  is  content  to  make  little  show,  because 
it  is  very  strong;  yet  you  have  always  to 


ESTHER  AND   HENRY  325 

reckon  with  it.  It  is  undemonstrative,  but  it  is 
always  there.  The  love  of  Esther  and  Henry 
was  like  that.  It  has  made  little  show  in  this 
history,  but  few  readers  can  have  missed  its 
presence  in  the  atmosphere.  It  might  go  for 
weeks  without  its  festival ;  but  there  it  was  all 
the  time,  ready  for  any  service,  staunch  for 
any  trial.  It  was  one  of  the  laws  which  kept 
the  little  world  I  have  been  describing  slung 
safely  in  space,  and  securely  shining. 

It  was,  indeed,  something  like  a  perfect  rela- 
tionship,—  this  love  of  Esther  and  Henry. 
Had  the  laws  of  nature  permitted  it,  it  is  prob- 
able that  Mike  and  Angel  would  have  been 
forced  to  seek  their  mates  elsewhere.  As  it  was, 
though  it  was  thus  less  than  marriage,  it  was 
more  than  friendship — as  the  holy  intercourse 
of  a  mother  and  a  son  is  more  than  friendship. 
Freed  from  the  perturbations  of  sex,  it  yet 
gained  warmth  and  exhilaration  from  the  un- 
conscious presence  of  that  stimulating  differ- 
ence. Though  they  were  brother  and  sister, 
friend  and  friend,  Henry  and  Esther  were  also 
man  and  woman.  So  satisfying  were  they  to 
each  other,  that  when  they  sat  thus  together, 
the  truth  must  be  told,  that,  for  the  time  at  all 
events,  they  missed  no  other  man  or  woman. 


326  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  I  have  always  you,"  said  Esther. 

"Do  I  still  matter,  then?"  said  Henry. 
"Are  you  sure  the  old  love  is  not  growing 
old?" 

"  You  know  it  can  never  grow  old.  There 
is  only  one  Mike;  but  there  is  only  one 
Henry  too.  It 's  a  good  love  to  have,  Harry, 
isn't  it?  It  makes  one  feel  so  much  safer  in 
the  world." 

"  Dear  little  Esther !  Do  you  remember 
those  old  beatings,  and  that  night  you  brought 
me  the  cake?  Bless  you!"  —  and  Henry 
reached  his  hand  across  the  table,  and  laid  it 
so  kindly  on  Esther's  that  a  hovering  waiter 
retreated  out  of  delicacy,  mistaking  the  pair 
for  lovers.  It  was  a  mistake  that  was  often 
made  when  they  were  together;  and  they  had 
sometimes  laughed,  when  travelling,  at  the 
kind-hearted  way  passengers  on  the  point  of 
entering  their  carriage  had  suddenly  made  up 
their  minds  not  to  disturb  the  poor  newly- 
married  young  things. 

"  And  how  we  used  to  hate  you  once  !  "  said 
Esther;  "one  can  hardly  understand  it  now. 
Do  you  remember  how  on  Sunday  afternoons 
you  would  insist  on  playing  at  church,  and 
how,  with  a  tablecloth  for  a  surplice,  you 


ESTHER  AND   HENRY  327 

used  to  be  the  minister?  How  you  used  to 
storm  if  we  poor  things  missed  any  of  the 
responses !  " 

"  The  monstrous  egoism  of  it  all !  "  said 
Henry,  laughing.  "  It  was  all  got  up  to  give 
me  a  stage,  and  nothing  else.  I  did  n't  care 
whether  you  enjoyed  it  or  not.  What  dragons 
children  are !  " 

"  '  Dragons  of  the  prime,  that  tare  each  other 
in  their  slime,'  "  quoted  Esther.  "  Yes,  we  tore 
each  other,  and  no  mistake  — 

"Well,  I've  made  up  for  it  since,  haven't 
I?"  said  Henry.  "I  hope  I'm  a  humble 
enough  brother  of  the  beautiful  to  please  you 
nowadays." 

"  You  're  the  truest,  most  reliable  thing  in  the 
world,"  said  Esther ;  "  I  always  think  of  you  as 
something  strong  and  true  to  come  to  —  " 

"  Except  Mike  !  " 

"  No,  not  even  except  Mike.  We  '11  call  it 
a  draw  —  dear  little  Mike  !  To  think  of  him 
going  further  and  further  away  every  minute ! 
I  wonder  where  he  is  by  now.  He  must  have 
reached  Rugby  long  since." 

At  that  moment  the  waiter  ventured  to 
approach  with  a  silver  tray.  A  telegram,  —  it 
was  indeed  a  telegram  of  tears  and  distance 


328  YOUNG  LIVES 

from  Mike,  given  in  at  Rugby.  Even  so  long 
parted  and  so  far  away,  Mike  was  still  true. 
He  had  not  yet  forgotten ! 

These  young  people  were  great  extravagants 
of  the  emotional  telegram.  They  were  prob- 
ably among  the  earliest  to  apply  electricity 
for  heart-breaking  messages.  Some  lovers 
feel  it  a  profanation  thus  to  reveal  their  souls 
beneath  the  eye  of  a  telegraph-operator;  but 
the  objection  of  delicacy  ceases  if  you  can 
regard  the  operator  in  his  actual  capacity  as  a 
part  of  the  machine.  French  perhaps  is  an 
advisable  medium  ;  though,  if  the  operator  mis- 
understands it,  your  love  is  apt  to  take  strange 
forms  at  its  destination,  and  if  he  understands 
it,  you  may  as  well  use  English  at  once. 

"  Dear  Mike  !  God  bless  him  !  "  and  they 
pledged  Mike  in  Esther's  favourite  cham- 
pagne. The  wives  of  great  actor-managers 
must  early  inure  themselves  to  champagne. 

"  But  if  you  're  jealous  of  Mike,"  said  Esther, 
presently,  taking  up  the  dropped  thread  of 
their  talk;  "what  about  Angel?" 

"  Of  course  it  was  only  nonsense,"  said 
Henry.  "  I  know  you  love  Angel  far  too 
much  to  be  jealous  of  her,  as  I  love  Mike; 
and  that 's  just  the  beautiful  harmony  of  it  all. 


ESTHER  AND    HENRY  329 

We  are  just  a  little  impregnable  world  of  four, 
—  four  loving  hearts  against  the  world." 

"  How  clever  it  was  of  you  to  find  Angel !  " 

"  I  found  Mike,  too !  "  said  Henry,  laughing. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know;  but  then  I  discovered 
you." 

"  Ah,  but  a  still  higher  honour  belongs  to 
me,  for  I  discovered  you,"  retorted  Henry. 
"  When  you  consider  that  I  discovered  three 
such  wonderful  persons  as  you  and  Angel  and 
Mike,  don't  you  think,  on  the  whole,  that  I  'm 
singularly  modest?" 

"Do  you  love  me?"  said  Esther,  presently, 
quite  irrelevantly. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  asked  first." 

"Well,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  let  us  say 
'yes.'" 

"How  much?" 

"  As  big  as  the  world." 

"  Oh,  well,  then,  let 's  have  some  Benedictine 
with  the  coffee !  "  said  Esther. 

"  I  've  thought  of  something  better,  more 
'  sacramental,' "  said  Henry,  smiling,  "  but  you 
could  n't  conscientiously  drink  it  with  me.  It 's 
the  red  drink  of  perfect  love.  Will  you  drink 
it  with  me?" 


330  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

So  the  waiter  brought  a  bottle  bearing  the 
beautiful  words,  "  Parfait  Amour" 

"It's  like  blood,"  said  Esther;  "it  makes 
me  a  little  frightened." 

"Would  you  rather  not  drink  it?"  asked 
Henry.  "  You  know  if  you  drink  it  with  me, 
you  must  drink  it  with  no  one  else.  It  is 
the  law  of  it  that  we  can  only  drink  it  with 
one." 

"  Not  even  with  Mike?  " 

"  Not  even  with  Mike." 

"What  of  Angel?" 

"  I  will  drink  it  with  no  one  but  you  as  long 
as  I  live." 

"  I  will  drink  it  then." 

They  held  up  their  glasses. 

"  Dear  old  Esther !  " 

"  Dear  old  Henry  ! " 

And  then  they  laughed  at  their  solemnity. 
It  was  deeply  sworn ! 

When  Esther  reached  home  that  evening, 
she  found  a  further  telegram  from  Mike,  an- 
nouncing his  arrival  at  Euston ;  and  she  had 
scarcely  read  it  when  she  heard  her  father's 
voice  calling  her.  She  went  immediately  to 
the  dining-room. 


ESTHER  AND   HENRY  331 

"  Esther,  dear,"  he  said,  "  your  mother  and 
I  want  a  word  with  you." 

"No,  James,  you  must  speak  for  yourself  in 
this,"  said  Mrs.  Mesurier,  evidently  a  little 
perturbed. 

"  Well,  dear,  if  I  must  be  alone  in  the  matter, 
I  must  bear  it ;  I  cannot  shrink  from  my  duty 
on  that  account."  Then,  turning  to  Esther, 
"  I  called  you  in  to  speak  to  you  about  Mike 
Laflin  — " 

"  Yes,  father,"  exclaimed  Esther,  with  a  little 
gasp  of  surprise. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Laflin  on  the  boat  this  morning, 
and  was  much  astonished  and  grieved  to  hear 
of  the  rash  step  his  son  has  chosen  to  take. 
The  matter  has  evidently  been  kept  from  me," 
—  strictly  speaking,  it  had ;  "  I  understand, 
though  on  that  again  I  have  not  been  con- 
sulted, that  you  and  Mike  have  for  some  time 
been  informally  engaged  to  each  other.  Now 
you  know  my  views  on  the  theatre,  and  I  am 
sure  that  you  must  see  that  Mike's  having 
taken  such  a  step  must  at  once  put  an  end  to 
any  such  idea.  Your  own  sense  of  propriety 
would,  I  am  sure,  tell  you  that,  without  any 
words  from  me — " 

"  Father  !  "  cried  Esther,  in  astonishment. 


332  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  You  know  that  I  considered  Mike  a  very 
nice  lad.  His  family  is  respectable;  and  he 
would  have  come  into  a  very  comfortable  busi- 
ness, if  he  had  n't  taken  this  foolish  freak  into 
his  head  — " 

"  But,  father,  you  have  laughed  at  his  recita- 
tions, yourself,  many  a  time,  here  of  an  even- 
ing. What  difference  can  there  be  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  difference  of  the  theatre,  the 
contaminating  atmosphere,  the  people  it  at- 
tracts, the  harm  it  does  —  your  father,  as  you 
know,  has  never  been  within  a  theatre  in  his 
life ;  is  it  likely  that  he  can  look  with  calmness 
upon  his  daughter  marrying  a  man  whose 
livelihood  is  to  be  gained  in  a  scandalous  and 
debasing  profession?" 

"  Father,  I  cannot  listen  to  your  talking  of 
Mike  like  that.  If  it  is  wrong  to  make  people 
innocently  happy,  to  make  them  laugh  and  for- 
get their  troubles,  to  —  to  — well,  if  it 's  wrong 
to  be  Mike  —  I'm  sorry ;  but,  wrong  or  right,  I 
love  him,  and  nothing  will  ever  make  me  give 
him  up." 

Mrs.  Mesurier  here  interrupted,  "  I  told  you, 
James,  how  it  would  be.  You  cannot  change 
young  hearts.  The  times  are  not  the  same  as 
when  you  and  I  were  young;  and,  though  I  'm 


ESTHER  AND    HENRY  333 

sure  I  don't  want  to  go  against  you,  I  think 
you  are  too  hard  on  Esther.  Love  is  love  after 
all  —  and  Mike 's  one  of  the  best-hearted  lads 
that  ever  walked." 

"  Thank  you,  mother,"  said  Esther,  impul- 
sively, throwing  her  arms  round  her  mother's 
neck,  and  bursting  into  tears,  "I  —  I  will 
never  give  —  give  —  him  up." 

"  No,  dear,  no ;  now  don't  distress  yourself. 
It  will  all  come  right.  Your  father  does  n't  quite 
understand."  And  then  a  great  tempest  of 
sobbing  came  over  Esther,  and  swept  her  away 
to  her  own  room. 

The  father  and  mother  turned  to  each  other 
with  some  anger. 

"James,  I'm  surprised  at  your  distressing 
the  poor  child  like  that  to-night ;  you  might 
have  known  she  would  be  sensitive,  with  Mike 
only  gone  to-day !  You  could  surely  have 
waited  till  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  surprised,  Mary,  that  you  can  en- 
courage her  as  you  did.  You  cannot  surely 
uphold  the  theatre?" 

"Well,  James,  I  don't  know,  —  there  are 
theatres  and  theatres,  and  actors  and  actors; 
and  there  have  been  some  very  good  men 
actors  after  all,  and  some  very  bad  men  min- 


334  YOUNG   LIVES 

isters,  if  it  comes  to  that,"  she  added ;  "  and 
theatre  or  no  theatre,  love  's  love  in  spite  of 
all  the  fathers  and  mothers  in  the  world  — " 

"  All  right,  Mary,  I  would  prefer  then  that 
we  spoke  no  more  on  the  matter  for  this  even- 
ing," and  James  Mesurier  turned  to  his  diary, 
to  record,  along  with  the  state  of  the  weather, 
and  the  engagements  of  the  day,  the  undutiful 
conduct  of  Esther,  and  a  painful  difference 
with  his  wife. 

Strange,  that  men  who  have  themselves 
loved  and  begotten  should  thus  for  a  moment 
imagine  that  a  small  social  prejudice,  or  a 
narrow  religious  formula,  can  break  the  pur- 
pose of  a  young  and  vigorous  passion.  Do 
they  realise  what  it  is  they  are  proposing  to 
obstruct?  This  is  love  —  love,  my  dear  sir, 
at  once  the  mightiest  might,  and  the  rightest 
right  in  the  universe!  This  is  —  Niagara  — 
the  Atlantic  —  the  power  of  the  stars  —  and 
the  strength  of  the  tides.  It  is  all  the  winds 
of  the  world,  and  all  the  fires  of  the  centre. 
You  surely  cannot  be  serious  in  asking  it  to 
take,  in  exchange,  some  obsolete  objection 
against  its  beloved ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

MIKE   AFAR 

THIS  collision  with  her  father  braced  up 
Esther's  nerves,  and  made  Mike's  absence 
easier  to  bear.  Her  father  made  no  more 
allusion  to  it.  He  was  entering  that  period 
when  fathers,  however  despotic,  content  them- 
selves with  protest,  where  once  they  have  gov- 
erned by  royal  proclamation.  He  was  losing 
heart  to  contend  with  his  children.  They 
must  go  their  own  ways  —  though  it  must 
not  be  without  occasional  severe  and  solemn 
warnings  on  his  part. 

Mike  and  Esther  wrote  to  each  other  twice 
a  week.  They  had  talked  of  every  day,  but  a 
wise  instinct  prompted  them  to  the  less  roman- 
tic, but  likely  the  more  enduring  arrangement. 
It  would  be  none  the  less  open  to  them  to  write 
fourteen  letters  a  week  if  they  wished,  but  to 
have  had  to  admit  that  one  letter  a  day  was 
a  serious  tax,  not  only  on  one's  other  occu- 


336  YOUNG   LIVES 

pations,  including  idleness,  but  also  on  the 
amount  of  subject-matter  available,  would  have 
been  a  dangerous  correction  of  an  impulsive 
miscalculation. 

Second-rate  London  lodgings  are  not  great 
cheerers  of  the  human  spirit,  and  Mike  was 
very  lonely  in  his  first  letter  or  two ;  but,  as  the 
rehearsals  proceeded,  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  taking  hold  of  his  new  world,  and  the 
letter  which  told  of  his  first  night,  and  of  his 
own  encouraging  success  in  it,  was  buoyant 
with  the  rising  tide  of  the  future.  His  chief 
had  affectionately  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
as  he  came  off  from  his  scene,  and,  in  the  hear- 
ing of  the  whole  company,  prophesied  a  great 
future  for  him. 

Mike  had  been  born  under  a  lucky  star ;  and 
he  had  hardly  been  in  London  two  months 
when  accident  very  perceptibly  brightened  it. 
The  chief  comedian  in  the  company  fell  ill ; 
and  though  Mike  had  had  so  little  experience, 
his  chief  had  so  much  confidence  in  his  native 
gift,  that  he  cast  him  for  the  vacant  part. 
Mike  more  than  justified  the  confidence,  and 
not  only  pleased  him,  but  succeeded  in  indi- 
vidualising himself  with  the  audience.  He 
had  only  played  it  for  a  week,  when  one  Satur- 


MIKE   AFAR  337 

day  evening  the  audience,  after  calling  the 
manager  himself  three  times,  set  up  a  cry  for 
"  Laflin."  The  obsequious  attendant  pre- 
tended to  consider  it  as  a  fourth  call  for  the 
manager,  and  made  as  if  to  move  the  curtain 
aside  for  him  once  more ;  but,  with  a  mag- 
nanimity rare  indeed  in  a  "  star  "  of  his  mag- 
nitude, "  No,  no  !  "  he  said ;  "  it  is  Mr.  Laflin 
they  want.  Quick,  lad,  and  take  your  first 
call." 

So  little  Mike  stepped  before  the  curtain, 
and  made  his  first  bow  to  an  affectionate  burst 
of  applause.  What  happy  tears  would  have 
glittered  in  Esther's  eyes  had  she  been  there 
to  see  it,  and  in  Henry's  too,  and  particularly, 
perhaps,  in  excitable  Angel's  ! 

Even  so  soon  was  the  blossom  giving 
promise  of  the  fruit. 


22 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  LEGACY  MORE    PRECIOUS  THAN   GOLD 

MEANWHILE,  Henry  plodded  away  at  Aunt 
Tipping's,  working  sometimes  on  a  volume  of 
essays  for  the  London  publisher,  and  some- 
times on  his  novel,  now  and  again  writing  a 
review,  and  earning  an  odd  guinea  for  a  poem  ; 
and  now  and  again  indulging  in  a  day  of 
richly  doing  nothing.  Otherwise,  one  day  was 
like  another,  with  the  many  exceptions  of  the 
days  on  which  he  saw  Angel  or  Esther.  With 
Ned,  he  spent  many  of  his  evenings ;  and  he 
soon  formed  the  pleasant  habit  of  dropping 
in  on  Gerard,  last  thing  before  bed-time,  for  a 
smoke  and  half  an  hour's  chat. 

There  is  always  a  good  deal  of  youth  left 
in  any  one  who  genuinely  loves  youth ;  and 
Gerard  always  spoke  of  his  youth  as  Adam, 
in  his  declining  years,  might  have  spoken  of 
Paradise.  For  him  life  was  just  youth  —  and 
the  rest  of  it  death. 


A  PRECIOUS  LEGACY  339 

"  After  thirty,"  he  would  say,  "  the  happiest 
life  is  only  history  repeating  itself.  I  am  no 
cynic, — far  from  it;  but  the  worst  of  life  is 
the  monotony  of  the  bill  of  fare.  To  do  a 
thing  once,  even  twice,  is  delightful  —  perhaps 
even  a  third  time  is  successfully  possible ;  but 
to  do  it  four  times,  is  middle  age.  If  you 
think  of  it,  what  is  there  to  do  after  thirty  that 
one  ought  not  to  have  achieved  to  perfection 
before?  You  know  the  literary  dictum,  that 
the  poet  who  has  n't  written  a  masterpiece 
before  he  is  thirty  will  never  write  any  after. 
Of  course,  there  are  exceptions ;  I  am  speak- 
ing of  the  rule.  In  business,  for  example, 
what  future  is  there  for  the  man  who  has  not 
already  a  dashing  past  at  thirty?  Of  course, 
the  bulk,  the  massive  trunk  and  the  im- 
pressive foliage  of  his  business,  must  come 
afterwards ;  but  the  tree  must  have  been 
firmly  rooted  and  stoutly  branched  before 
then,  and  able  to  go  on  growing  on  its  own 
account  The  work,  in  fact,  must  have  been 
done. 

"Take  perhaps  the  only  thing  really  worth 
doing  in  life,"  and  Gerard  perceptibly  sad- 
dened. "  That  is,  marrying  a  woman  you 
love,  or  I  should  say  the  woman,  for  you  only 


340  YOUNG  LIVES 

really  love  one  woman — I'm  old-fashioned 
enough  to  think  that, — well,  I  say,  marrying 
the  woman  you  love,  and  bringing  into  the 
world  that  miracle  of  miracles,  —  a  child  that 
shall  be  something  of  you  and  all  her :  that 
certainly  is  something  to  have  done  before 
thirty,  and  not  to  be  repeated,  perhaps,  more 
than  once  before  or  after.  She  will  want  a 
boy  like  you,  and  you  will  have  a  girl  like  her. 
That  you  may  easily  accomplish  before  thirty. 
Afterwards,  however,  if  you  go  on  repeating 
each  other,  what  do  you  do  but  blur  the 
individuality  of  the  original  masterpieces  — 
though,"  pursued  Gerard,  laughing,  always 
ready  to  forget  his  original  argument  in  the 
seductiveness  of  an  unexpected  development 
of  it,  "  though,  after  all,  I  admit,  there  might 
be  a  temptation  sometimes  to  improve  upon 
the  originals.  'Agnes,  my  dear,'  we  might 
say, 'I'm  not  quite  satisfied  yet  with  the  shade 
of  Eva's  hair.  It 's  nearly  yours,  but  not  quite. 
It's  an  improvement  on  Anna's,  whose  eyes 
now  are  exactly  yours.  Eva's,  unfortunately, 
are  not  so  faithful.  I  'm  afraid  we  '11  have  to 
try  again.' 

"  No,  but  seriously,"  he  once  more  began, 
"  for  a  really  vital  and  successful  life  there  is 


A   PRECIOUS   LEGACY  341 

no  adequate  employment  of  the  faculties  after 
thirty,  except,  of  course,  in  the  repetition  of 
former  successes.  No ;  1  even  withdraw  that, 
—  not  the  repetition,  only  the  conservation,  the 
feeding,  of  former  successes.  The  success  is 
in  the  creation.  When  a  world  is  once  created, 
any  fool  can  keep  it  spinning. 

"  Man's  life  is  at  least  thirty  years  too  long. 
Two  score  years  is  more  than  enough  for  us 
to  say  what  we  were  sent  here  to  say ;  and  if 
you  '11  consider  those  biographies  in  which 
you  are  most  interested,  the  biographies  of 
great  writers,  you  cannot  but  bear  me  out. 
What,  for  instance,  did  Keats  and  Shelley 
and  Burns  and  Byron  lose  by  dying,  all  of 
them  long  before  they  were  forty,  —  Keats 
even  long  before  he  was  thirty ;  and  what  did 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  gain  by  living  so 
long  after?  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  didn't 
even  live  to  repeat  themselves,  else,  of  course, 
one  would  have  begged  them  to  go  on  living 
for  ever;  for  some  repetitions,  it  is  admitted, 
are  welcome,  —  for  instance,  won't  you  have  a 
little  more  whisky?  " 

Henry  always  agreed  so  completely  with 
Gerard's  talk,  or  at  least  so  delighted  in  it, 
that  he  had  little  scope  of  opportunity  to  say 


342  YOUNG   LIVES 

much  himself;  and  Gerard  was  too  keen  a 
talker  to  complain  of  a  rapt  young  listener. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  said,  presently. 

"  Twenty-two  next  month." 

"  Twenty-two  !  How  wonderful  to  be  twenty- 
two  !  Yet  I  don't  suppose  you  Ve  realised  it 
in  the  least.  In  your  own  view,  you  're  an 
aged  philosopher,  white  with  a  past,  and  bowed 
down  with  the  cares  of  a  future.  Just  you 
stay  in  bed  all  day  to-morrow,  and  ponder 
on  the  wonderfulness  of  being  twenty-two  ! 

"I'm  forty-two.  You're  beginning — I'm 
done  with.  And  yet,  in  some  ways,  I  believe 
I  'm  younger  than  you  —  though,  perhaps,  alas  ! 
what  I  consider  the  youth  in  me  is  only  the 
wish  to  be  young  again,  the  will  to  do  and 
enjoy,  without  the  force  and  the  appetite. 
But,  by  the  way,  when  I  say  I  'm  forty-two,  I 
mean  that  I  'm  forty-two  in  the  course  of  next 
week,  next  Thursday,  in  fact,  and  if  you  '11  do 
me  that  kindness,  I  should  be  grateful  if  you 
would  join  me  that  evening  in  celebrating  the 
melancholy  occasion.  I  Ve  got  a  great  mind 
to  enlist  your  sympathy  in  a  little  ancient  his- 
tory, if  it  won't  be  too  great  a  tax  upon  your 
goodness;  but  I'll  think  it  over  between  now 
and  then." 


A   PRECIOUS  LEGACY  343 

Gerard's  birthday  had  come;  and  the  ancient 
history  he  had  spoken  of  had  proved  to  be  a 
chapter  of  his  own  history,  the  beauty  and 
sadness  of  which  had  made  an  impression 
upon  Henry,  to  be  rendered  ineffaceable  a 
very  few  days  after  in  a  sudden  and  terrible 
manner. 

One  early  morning  about  four,  just  as  it  was 
growing  light,  he  had  suddenly  awakened  with 
a  strong  feeling  that  some  one  was  bending 
over  him.  He  opened  his  eyes,  to  see,  as  he 
thought,  Gerard  hastily  leaving  his  bedside. 

"  Gerard  !  "  he  cried,  "  what 's  the  matter?  " 
but  the  figure  gave  no  answer,  faded  away 
down  the  long  room,  and  disappeared.  Henry 
sat  up  in  bed  and  struck  a  light,  his  heart  beat- 
ing violently.  But  there  was  no  one  there,  and 
the  door  was  closed.  It  had  evidently  been 
one  of  those  dreams  that  persist  on  the  eye  for 
a  moment  after  waking.  Yet  it  left  him  un- 
easy; and  presently  he  wondered  if  Gerard 
could  be  ill.  He  determined  to  see;  so,  slip- 
ping on  his  dressing-gown,  he  crossed  the 
landing  to  Gerard's  room,  and,  softly  knocking, 
opened  the  door  and  put  in  his  head. 

"Gerard,  old  chap,  are  you  all  right?  — 
Gerard  —  " 


344  YOUNG   LIVES 

There  was  no  answer,  and  the  room  seemed 
unaccountably  still.  He  listened  for  the  sound 
of  breathing,  but  he  could  n't  hear  it. 

"  Gerard  !  "  he  cried,  again  louder,  but  there 
was  still  no  answer;  and  then,  with  the  silence, 
a  chill  terror  began  to  creep  through  his  blood. 
He  had  never  yet  seen  death ;  and  perhaps  if 
he  had  the  terror  in  his  thought  would  not 
have  been  lessened.  With  a  heart  that  had 
almost  stopped  beating,  and  knees  that  shook 
beneath  him,  he  pushed  open  the  door  and 
walked  over  to  the  bed.  It  was  still  too  dark 
to  see  more  than  outlines  and  masses  of  white 
and  black;  but  even  so  he  could  see  that  the 
stillness  with  which  Gerard  was  lying  was  the 
stillness  of  death. 

His  next  thought  was  to  rouse  Aunt  Tipping ; 
and  together  the  two  bent  over  the  dead  face. 

"  Yes,  he  's  gone,"  said  Aunt  Tipping ;  "  poor 
gentlemen,  how  beautiful  he  looks !  "  and  they 
both  gazed  in  silence  upon  the  calm,  smiling 
face. 

"  Well,  he  's  better  off,"  she  said,  presently, 
leaning  over  him,  and  softly  pressing  down  the 
lids  of  his  eyes. 

Henry  involuntarily  drew  away. 

"  Dear  lad,  there  's  nothing  to  be  frightened 


A   PRECIOUS   LEGACY  345 

of,"  said  his  aunt.  "  He 's  as  harmless  as  a 
baby." 

Then  she  took  a  handkerchief  from  a  drawer, 
and  spread  it  gently  over  the  dead  man's  face. 
To  Aunt  Tipping  the  dead  were  indeed  as  little 
children,  and  inspired  her  with  a  strange  moth- 
erly tenderness.  Many  had  been  the  tired 
silent  ones  whose  eyes  she  had  closed,  and 
whose  limbs  she  had  washed  against  their  last 
resting  place.  They  were  so  helpless  now ;  they 
could  do  nothing  any  more  for  themselves. 

Later  in  the  day,  Henry  came  again  and  sat 
long  by  the  dead  man's  side.  It  seemed  un- 
companionable to  have  grown  thus  suddenly 
afraid  of  him,  to  leave  him  thus  alone  in  that 
still  r6om.  And  as  he  sat  and  watched  him, 
he  gave  to  his  memory  a  solemn  service  of 
faithful  thought.  Thus  it  was  he  went  over 
again  the  words  in  which  Gerard  had  made 
him  the  depository,  the  legatee,  of  his  most 
sacred  possession. 

Gerard  had  evidently  had  some  presentiment 
of  his  approaching  end. 

"  I  am  going,"  he  had  said,  "  to  place  the 
greatest  confidence  in  you  one  man  can  place 
in  another,  pay  you  the  greatest  compliment. 
I  shall  die  some  day,  and  something  tells  me 


346  YOUNG  LIVES 

that  that  divine  event  is  not  very  far  off.  Now 
I  have  no  one  in  the  world  who  cares  an  old 
'  J '  pen  for  me,  and  a  new  one  is  perhaps 
about  as  much  as  I  care  for  any  one  —  with 
one  exception,  and  that  is  a  woman  whom  I 
shall  never  see  again.  She  is  not  dead,  but 
has  been  worse  than  dead  for  me  these  ten 
years.  I  am  optimist  enough  to  believe  that 
her  old  love  for  me  still  survives,  making  sweet 
the  secret  places  of  her  soul.  Never  once  in 
all  these  years  to  have  doubted  her  love  has 
been  more  than  most  marriages ;  but  were  I  to 
live  for  another  ten  years,  and  still  another,  I 
would  believe  in  it  still.  But  the  stars  were 
against  us.  We  met  too  late.  We  met  when 
she  had  long  been  engaged  to  a  friend  of  her 
youth,  a  man  noble  and  true,  to  whom  she  owed 
much,  and  whom  she  felt  it  a  kind  of  murder  to 
desert.  It  was  one  of  those  fallacious  chival- 
ries of  feeling  which  are  the  danger  of  sensitive 
and  imaginative  minds.  Religion  strengthened 
it,  as  it  is  so  apt  to  strengthen  any  form  of  self- 
destruction,  short  of  technical  suicide.  There 
was  but  a  month  to  their  marriage  when  we 
met.  For  us  it  was  a  month  of  rapture  and 
agonies,  of  heaven  shot  through  with  hell.  I 
saw  further  than  she.  I  begged  her  at  least 


A  PRECIOUS  LEGACY  347 

to  wait  a  year;  but  the  force  of  my  appeal  was 
weakened  by  scruples  similar  to  her  own.  To 
rob  another  of  his  happiness  is  an  act  from 
which  we  may  well  shrink,  though  we  can 
clearly  see  that  the  happiness  was  really  des- 
tined for  us,  and  can  never  be  his  in  any  like 
degree.  During  this  time  I  had  received  from 
her  many  letters,  letters  such  as  a  woman  only 
writes  in  the  May-morning  of  her  passion ;  and 
one  day  I  received  the  last.  There  was  in  it 
one  sentence  which  when  I  read  it  I  think  my 
heart  broke.  '  Do  you  believe,'  it  ran,  '  in  a 
love  that  can  lie  asleep,  as  in  a  trance,  in  this 
world,  to  awaken  again  in  another,  a  love  that 
during  centuries  of  silence  can  still  be  true, 
and  be  love  still  in  a  thousand  years?  If  you 
do,  go  on  loving  me.  For  that  is  the  only 
love  I  dare  give  you.  I  must  love  you  no 
more  in  this  world.' 

"  Each  morning  as  I  have  risen,  and  each 
night  as  I  have  turned  to  sleep,  those  words 
have  repeated  themselves  again  and  again  in 
my  heart,  for  ten  years.  It  was  so  I  became 
the  Ashton  Gerard  you  know  to-day.  Since 
that  day,  we  have  never  met  or  written  to  each 
other.  All  I  know  is  that  she  is  still  alive, 
and  still  with  him,  and  never  would  I  disturb 


348  YOUNG   LIVES 

their  peace.  When  I  die,  I  would  not  have 
her  know  it.  If  love  -is  immortal,  we  shall 
meet  again  —  when  I  am  worthier  to  meet 
her.  Such  reunions  are  either  mere  dreams, 
or  they  are  realities  to  which  the  strongest 
forces  of  the  universe  are  pledged." 

Henry's  only  comment  had  been  to  grip 
Gerard's  hand,  and  give  him  the  sympathy  of 
silence. 

"Now,"  said  Gerard,  once  more  after  a 
while,  "  it  is  about  those  letters  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.  They  are  here,"  and  he  un- 
locked a  drawer  and  drew  from  it  a  little 
silver  box.  "  I  always  keep  them  here.  The 
key  of  the  drawer  is  on  this  ring,  and  this 
little  gold  key  is  the  key  of  the  box  itself.  I 
tell  you  this,  because  I  have  what  you  may 
regard  as  a  strange  request  to  make. 

"  I  suppose  most  men  would  consider  it 
their  duty  either  to  burn  these  letters,  or 
leave  instructions  for  them  to  be  buried  with 
them.  That  is  a  gruesome  form  of  sentiment 
in  which  I  have  too  much  imagination  to 
indulge.  Both  my  ideas  of  duty  and  senti- 
ment take  a  different  form.  The  surname  of 
the  writer  of  these  letters  is  nowhere  revealed 
in  them,  nor  are  there  any  references  in  them 


A   PRECIOUS   LEGACY  349 

by  which  she  could  ever  be  identified.  There- 
fore the  menace  to  her  fair  fame  in  their 
preservation  is  not  a  question  involved.  Now 
when  the  simplest  woman  is  in  love,  she 
writes  wonderfully;  but  when  a  woman  of 
imagination  and  intellect  is  caught  by  the 
fire  of  passion,  she  becomes  a  poet.  Once 
in  her  life,  every  such  woman  is  an  artist; 
once,  for  some  one  man's  unworthy  sake,  she 
becomes  inspired,  and  out  of  the  fulness  of 
her  heart  writes  him  letters  warm  and  real 
as  the  love-cries  of  Sappho.  Such  are  the 
letters  in  this  little  box.  They  are  the  classic 
of  a  month's  passion,  written  as  no  man  has 
ever  yet  been  able  to  write  his  love.  Do  you 
think  it  strange  then  that  I  should  shrink 
from  destroying  them  ?  I  would  as  soon  burn 
the  songs  of  Shelley.  They  are  living  things. 
Shall  I  selfishly  bury  the  beating  heart  of 
them  in  the  silence  of  the  grave? 

"So,  Mesurier, "  he  continued,  affection- 
ately, "  when  I  met  you  and  understood  some- 
thing of  your  nature,  I  thought  that  in  you  I 
had  found  one  who  was  worthy  to  guard  this 
treasure  for  me,  and  perhaps  pass  it  on  again 
to  some  other  chosen  spirit  —  so  that  these 
beautiful  words  of  a  noble  woman's  heart 


350  YOUNG  LIVES 

shall  not  die  —  for  when  a  man  loves  a 
woman,  Mesurier,  as  you  yourself  must  know, 
he  is  insatiable  to  hear  her  praise,  and  it  is 
agony  for  him  to  think  that  her  memory  may 
suffer  extinction.  Therefore,  Mesurier,  — 
Henry,  let  me  call  you,  —  I  want  to  give  the 
memory  of  my  love  into  your  hands.  I  want 
you  to  love  it  for  me,  when  perhaps  I  can 
love  it  no  more.  I  want  you  sometimes  to 
open  this  box,  and  read  in  these  letters,  as  if 
they  were  your  own;  I  want  you  sometimes 
to  speak  softly  the  name  of  '  Helen,'  when  my 
lips  can  speak  it  no  more." 

Such  was  the  beautiful  legacy  of  which 
Henry  found  himself  the  possessor  by  Gerard's 
death.  Early  on  that  day  he  had  remembered 
his  promise  to  his  dead  friend,  and  had  found 
the  silver  box,  and  locked  it  away  among  his 
own  most  sacred  things.  Some  day,  in  an 
hour  and  place  upon  which  none  might  break, 
he  would  open  the  little  box  and  read  Helen's 
letters,  as  Gerard  had  wished.  Already  one 
sentence  was  fixed  unforgettably  upon  his 
mind,  and  he  said  it  over  softly  to  himself 
as  he  sat  by  Gerard's  silent  bed:  "Do  you 
believe  in  a  love  that  can  lie  asleep,  as  in  a 
trance  in  this  world,  to  awaken  again  in 


A   PRECIOUS   LEGACY  351 

another,  —  a  love  that  during  centuries  of 
silence  can  still  be  true,  and  be  love  still  in 
a  thousand  years?  If  you  do,  go  on  loving 
me.  For  that  is  the  only  love  I  dare  give 
you;  I  must  love  you  no  more  in  this 
world. " 

Strange  dreams  of  the  indomitable  dust! 
Already  another  man's  love  was  growing  dear 
to  him.  Already  his  soul  said  the  name  of 
"Helen"  softly  for  Gerard's  sake. 


CHAPTER   XLI 

LABORIOUS   DAYS 

WITH  Gerard's  death,  Henry  began  to  find 
Aunt  Tipping's  too  sad  a  place  to  go  on  liv- 
ing in.  It  had  become  haunted ;  and  when 
new  people  moved  into  Gerard's  rooms,  it 
became  still  more  painful  for  him.  It  was  as 
though  Gerard  had  been  dispossessed  and 
driven  out.  So  he  cast  about  for  some  new 
shelter;  and,  one  day,  chance  having  taken 
him  to  the  shipping  end  of  the  city,  he  came 
upon  some  old  offices  which  seemed  full  of 
anxiety  to  be  let.  Inquiring  of  a  chatty 
little  housekeeper's  wife,  he  discovered,  away 
at  the  echoing  top  of  the  building,  a  big,  well- 
lighted  room,  for  which  she  thought  the 
owner  would  be  glad  to  take  ten  pounds  a 
year.  That  whole  storey  was  deserted.  Henry 
made  up  his  mind  at  once,  and  broke  the 
news  to  Aunt  Tipping  that  evening.  It  was 
the  withering  of  one  of  her  few  rays  of  poetry, 


LABORIOUS   DAYS  353 

and  she  struggled  to  keep  him;  but  when  she 
saw  how  it  was,  the  good  woman  insisted  that 
he  should  take  something  from  her  towards 
furnishing.  Receiving  was  nothing  like  so 
blessed  as  giving  for  Aunt  Tipping.  That 
old  desk,  — yes,  she  had  bought  it  for  him,  — 
that  he  must  certainly  take,  and  think  of  his 
old  aunt  sometimes  as  he  wrote  his  great 
books  on  it;  and  some  bed-linen  she  could 
well  afford.  She  would  take  no  denial. 

Angel  and  Esther  were  then  called  in  to 
help  him  in  the  purchase  of  a  carpet,  a  fold- 
ing-bed, an  old  sofa,  and  a  few  chairs.  A 
carpenter  got  to  work  on  the  book-shelves, 
and  in  a  fortnight's  time  still  another  habita- 
tion had  been  built  for  the  Muse,  — a  habita- 
tion from  which  she  was  not  destined  to 
remove  again,  till  she  and  Angel  and  Henry 
all  moved  into  one  house  together,  — a  removal 
which  was,  as  yet,  too  far  off  to  be  included 
in  this  history. 

Ten  pounds  a  year,  a  folding-bed,  and  a 
teapot!  —  this  was  Henry's  new  formula  for 
the  cultivation  of  literature.  He  had  so  far 
progressed  in  his  ambitions  as  to  have  arrived 
at  the  dignity  of  a  garret  of  his  own,  and  he 
liked  to  pretend  that  soon  he  might  be  roman- 
23 


354  YOUNG   LIVES 

tically  fortunate  enough  to  sit  face  to  face 
with  starvation.  He  knew,  however,  that  it 
would  be  a  starvation  mitigated  by  supplies 
from  three  separate,  well-lardered  homes.  A 
lad  with  a  sweetheart  and  a  sister,  a  mother 
and  an  aunt,  all  in  love  with  him,  is  not 
likely  to  become  an  authority  on  starvation  in 
its  severest  forms. 

A  stern  law  had  been  passed  that  Henry's 
daytime  hours  were  to  be  as  strictly  respected 
as  those  of  a  man  of  business ;  yet  quite  often, 
about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  there 
would  come  a  heavenly  whisper  along  the 
passage  and  a  little  knock  on  the  door,  soft  as 
a  flower  tapping  against  a  window-pane. 

"Thank  goodness,  that 's  Angel ! 

"Angel,  bless  you!  How  glad  I  am  to 
see  you!  I  can't  get  on  a  bit  with  my  work 
this  morning." 

"Oh,  but  I  haven't  come  to  interrupt  you, 
dear.  I  sha'n't  keep  you  five  minutes.  Only 
I  thought,  dear,  you  'd  be  so  tired  of  pressed 
beef  and  tinned  tongue,  and  so  I  thought  I  'd 
make  a  little  hot-pot  for  you.  I  bought  the 
things  for  it  as  I  came  along,  and  it  won't 
take  five  minutes,  if  Mrs.  Glass  [the  house- 
keeper] will  only  lend  me  a  basin  to  put  it 


LABORIOUS   DAYS  355 

in,  and  bake  it  for  you  in  her  oven.  Now, 
dear,  you  mustn't  —  you  know  I  mustn't  stay. 
See  now,  I  '11  just  take  off  my  hat  and  jacket 
and  run  along  to  Mrs.  Glass,  to  get  what  I 
want.  I  '11  be  back  in  a  minute.  Well,  then, 
just  one  —  now  that 's  enough ;  good-bye,"  and 
off  she  would  skip. 

If  you  want  to  know  how  fairies  look  when 
they  are  making  hot-pot,  you  should  have 
seen  Angel's  absorbed  little  shining  face. 

"Now,  do  be  quiet,  Henry.  I'm  busy. 
Why  don't  you  get  on  with  your  work?  I 
won't  speak  a  word." 

"Angel,  dear,  you  might  just  as  well  stay 
and  help  me  to  eat  it.  I  sha'n't  do  any  work 
to-day,  I  know  for  certain.  It's  one  of  my 
bad  days. " 

"Now,  Henry,  that's  lazy.  You  mustn't 
give  way  like  that.  You  '11  make  me  wish  I 
had  n't  come.  It 's  all  my  fault. " 

"No,  really,  dear,  it  isn't.  I  haven't  done 
a  stroke  all  morning  —  though  I  've  sat  with 
my  pen  for  two  hours.  You  might  stay, 
Angel,  just  an  hour  or  two." 

"No,  Henry;  mother  wants  me  back  soon. 
She 's  house-cleaning.  And  besides,  I  must  n't. 
No  —  no  —  you  see  I've  nearly  finished  now 


356  YOUNG   LIVES 

—  see !  Get  me  the  salt  and  pepper.  There 
now — 'that  looks  nice,  doesn't  it?  Now 
aren't  I  a  good  little  housewife?" 

"You  would  be,  if  you'd  only  stay.  Do 
stay,  Angel.  Really,  darling,  it  will  be  all 
the  same  if  you  go.  I  know  I  shall  do  noth- 
ing. Look  at  my  morning's  work,"  and  he 
brought  her  a  sheet  of  paper  containing  two 
lines  and  a  half  of  new-born  prose,  one  line 
and  a  half  of  which  was  plentifully  scratched 
out.  To  this  argument  he  added  two  or  three 
persuasive  embraces. 

"  It 's  really  true,  Henry?  Well,  of  course, 
I  oughtn't;  but  if  you  can't  work,  of  course 
you  can't.  And  you  must  have  a  little  rest 
sometimes,  I  know.  Well,  then,  I'll  stay; 
but  only  till  we  've  finished  lunch,  you  know, 
and  we  must  have  it  early.  I  won't  stay 
a  minute  past  two  o'clock,  do  you  hear? 
And  now  I  '11  run  along  with  this  to  Mrs. 
Glass." 

When  Angel  had  gone  promptly  at  three, 
as  likely  as  not  another  step  would  be  heard 
coming  down  the  passage,  and  a  feminine 
rustle,  suggesting  a  fuller  foliage  of  skirts, 
pause  outside  the  door,  then  a  sort  of  brotherly- 
sisterly  knock. 


LABORIOUS  DAYS  357 

"  Esther !  Why,  you  've  just  missed  Angel ; 
what  a  pity !  " 

"Well,  dear,  I  only  ran  up  for  half-a- 
minute.  I  was  shopping  in  town,  and  I 
could  n't  resist  looking  in  to  see  how  the  poor 
boy  was  getting  on.  No,  dear,  I  won't  take 
my  things  off.  I  must  catch  the  half-past 
three  boat,  and  then  I  '11  keep  you  from  your 
work?" 

Esther  always  said  this  with  a  sort  of  sug- 
gestion in  her  voice  that  it  was  just  possible 
Henry  might  have  found  some  new  way  of 
both  keeping  her  there  and  doing  his  work 
at  the  same  time;  as  though  she  had  said, 
"  I  know  you  cannot  possibly  work  while  I  am 
here;  but,  of  course,  if  you  can,  and  talking 
to  me  all  the  time  won't  interfere  with  it  — 
well,  I '11  stay." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't  really.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  've  done  none  to-day.  I  can't  get 
into  the  mood." 

"  So  you  've  been  getting  Angel  to  help 
you.  Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  Angel  can  be 
allowed  to  interrupt  you,  I  suppose  I  can  too. 
Well,  then,  I  '11  stay  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  But  you  may  as  well  take  your  things  off, 
and  I'll  make  a  cup  of  tea,  eh?  That'll  be 


358  YOUNG   LIVES 

cosey,  won't  it?  And  then  you  can  read  me 
Mike's  last  letter,  eh?" 

"  Oh,  he  's  doing  splendidly,  dear!  I  had  a 
lovely  letter  from  him  this  morning.  Would 
you  really  care  to  hear  a  bit  of  it?  " 

And  Esther  would  proceed  to  read,  picking 
her  way  among  the  endearments  and  the 
diminutives. 

"  I  am  glad,  dear.  Why,  if  he  goes  on  at 
this  rate,  you  '11  be  able  to  get  married  in  no 
time." 

"Yes;  isn't  it  splendid,  dear?  I  am  so 
happy!  What  I  'd  give  to  see  his  little  face 
for  five  minutes  !  Would  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Rather.  Perhaps  he  '11  be  able  to  run  up 
on  Bank  Holiday." 

"I  'm  afraid  not,  dear.  He  speaks  of  it  in 
his  letter,  and  just  hopes  for  it;  but  rather 
fears  they'll  have  to  play  at  Brighton,  or 
some  other  stupid  seaside  place." 

"That's  a  bother.  Yes,  dear  old  Mike! 
To  think  of  him  working  away  there  all  by 
himself  —  God  bless  him!  Do  you  know 
he  's  never  seen  this  old  room?  It  struck  me 
yesterday.  It  does  n't  seem  quite  warmed  till 
he's  seen  it.  Wouldn't  it  be  lovely  to  have 
him  here  some  night?  —  one  of  our  old,  long 


LABORIOUS   DAYS  359 

evenings.  Well,  I  suppose  it  will  really 
come  one  of  these  days.  And  then  we  shall 
be  having  you  married,  and  going  off  to 
London  in  clouds  of  glory,  while  poor  old 
Henry  grubs  away  down  here  in  Tyre." 

"Well,  if  we  do  go  first,  you  will  not  be 
long  after  us,  dear;  and  if  only  Mike  could 
make  a  really  great  hit,  why,  in  five  years' 
time  we  might  all  be  quite  rich.  Won't  it 
be  wonderful  ?  " 

Then  the  kettle  boiled,  and  Henry  made 
the  tea;  and  when  it  had  long  since  been 
drunk,  Esther  began  to  think  it  must  be  five 
o'clock,  and,  horrified  to  find  it  a  quarter  to 
six,  confessed  to  being  ashamed  of  herself, 
and  tried  to  console  her  conscience  by  the 
haste  of  her  good-bye. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  wasted  your  afternoon," 
she  said;  "but  we  don't  often  get  a  chat  now- 
adays, do  we?  Good-bye,  dear.  Go  on  lov- 
ing me,  won't  you?" 

After  that,  Henry  would  give  the  day  up 
as  a  bad  job,  and  begin  to  wonder  if  Ned 
would  be  dropping  in  that  evening  for  a 
smoke;  and  as  that  was  Ned's  almost  nightly 
custom  about  eight  o'clock,  the  chances  of 
Henry's  disappointment  were  not  serious. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

A   HEAVIER   FOOTFALL 

ONE  morning,  as  Henry  was  really  doing  a 
little  work,  a  more  ponderous  step  broke  the 
silence  of  his  landing,  a  heavy  footfall  full  of 
friendship.  Certainly  that  was  not  Angel, 
nor  even  the  more  weighty  Esther,  though 
when  the  knock  came  it  was  little  and  shy  as 
a  woman's. 

Henry  threw  open  the  door,  but  for  a 
moment  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen;  and 
then,  recalling  the  idiosyncrasy  of  a  certain 
new  friend  whom  by  that  very  token  he 
guessed  it  might  be,  he  came  out  on  to  the 
landing,  to  find  a  great  big  friendly  man  in 
corpulent  blue  serge,  a  rough,  dark  beard,  and 
a  slouched  hat,  standing  a  few  feet  off  in  a 
deprecating  way,  —  which  really  meant  that 
if  there  were  any  ladies  in  the  room  with  Mr. 
Mesurier,  he  would  prefer  to  call  another 
time.  For  though  he  had  two  or  three  grown- 


A   HEAVIER   FOOTFALL         361 

up  daughters  of  his  own,  this  giant  of  a  man 
was  as  shy  of  a  bit  of  a  thing  like  Angel, 
whom  he  had  met  there  one  day,  as  though  he 
were  a  mere  boy.  He  always  felt,  he  ence 
said  in  explanation,  as  though  he  might  break 
them  in  shaking  hands.  They  affected  him 
like  the  presence  of  delicate  china,  and  yet 
he  could  hold  a  baby  deftly  as  an  elephant 
can  nip  up  a  flower;  and  to  see  him  turn  over 
the  pages  of  a  delicate  Edition  de  luxe  was  a 
lesson  in  tenderness.  For  this  big  man  who, 
as  he  would  himself  say,  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  a  pirate,  was  as  insatiable  of  fine 
editions  as  a  school-girl  of  chocolate  creams. 
He  was  one  of  those  dearest  of  God's  creatures, 
a  gentle  giant;  and  his  voice,  when  it  wasn't 
necessary  to  be  angry,  was  as  low  and  kind  as 
an  old  nurse  at  the  cradle's  side. 

Henry  had  come  to  know  him  through  his 
little  Scotch  printer,  who  printed  circulars 
and  bill-heads,  for  the  business  over  which 
Mr.  Fairfax  —  for  that  was  his  name  —  pre- 
sided. By  day  he  was  the  vigorous  brain  of 
a  huge  emporium,  a  sort  of  Tyrian  Whiteley's ; 
but  day  and  night  he  was  a  lover  of  books, 
and  you  could  never  catch  him  so  busy  but 
that  he  could  spare  the  time  mysteriously  to 


362  YOUNG  LIVES 

beckon  you  into  his  private  office,  and  with 
the  glee  of  a  child,  show  you  his  last  large 
paper.  He  not  only  loved  books;  but  he  was 
rumoured  liberally  to  have  assisted  one  or 
two  distressed  men  of  genius  well-known  to 
the  world.  The  tales  of  the  surreptitious 
goodness  of  his  heart  were  many ;  but  it  was 
known  too  that  the  big  kind  man  had  a  terribly 
searching  eye  under  his  briery  brows,  and 
could  be  as  stern  towards  ingratitude  as  he 
was  soft  to  misfortune.  Henry  once  caught  a 
glimpse  of  this  as  they  spoke  of  a  mutual 
friend  whom  he  had  helped  to  no  purpose. 
Mr.  Fairfax  never  used  many  words,  on  this 
occasion  he  was  grimly  laconic. 

"Rat-poison!"  he  said,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Rat-poison  ! "  It  was  his  way  of  saying  that 
that  was  the  only  cure  for  that  particular  kind 
of  man. 

It  was  evident  that  his  generous  eye  had 
seen  how  things  were  with  Henry.  He  had 
subscribed  for  at  least  a  dozen  copies  of  "The 
Book  of  Angelica,"  and  in  several  ways  shown 
his  interest  in  the  struggling  young  poet. 
As  has  been  said,  he  had  seen  Angelica  one 
day,  and  his  shyness  had  not  prevented  his 
heart  from  going  out  to  these  two  young  pco- 


A  HEAVIER  FOOTFALL         363 

pie,  and  the  dream  he  saw  in  their  eyes.  He 
had  determined  to  do  what  he  could  to  help 
them,  and  to-day  he  had  come  with  a  plan. 

"  I  hope  you  're  not  too  proud  to  give  me  a 
hand,  Mr.  Mesurier,  in  a  little  idea  I  've 
got,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  you  know  how  proud  I  am,  and 
how  proud  I  'm  not,  Mr.  Fairfax,"  said  Henry. 
"  I  'm  sure  anything  I  could  do  for  you  would 
make  me  proud,  if  that 's  what  you  mean." 

"  Thank  you.  Thank  you.  But  you  must  n't 
speak  too  fast.  It's  advertising  —  doejj  the 
word  frighten  you?  No?  Well,  it's  a  scheme 
I  've  thought  of  for  a  little  really  artistic  and 
humorous  advertising  combined.  I  've  got  a 
promise  from  one  of  the  most  original  artists 
of  the  day,  you  know  his  name,  to  do  the 
pictures;  and  I  want  you  to  do  the  verses  — 
at,  I  may  say,  your  own  price.  It's  not, 
perhaps,  the  highest  occupation  for  a  poet; 
but  it's  something  to  be  going  on  with;  and 
if  we  've  got  good  posters  as  advertisements, 
I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  have  good 
humorous  verse.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"I  think  it's  capital,"  said  Henry,  who 
was  almost  too  ready  to  turn  his  hand  to  any- 
thing. "  Of  course  I  '11  do  it;  only  too  glad." 


364  YOUNG  LIVES 

"Well,  that's  settled.  Now,  name  your 
price.  Don't  be  frightened!" 

"Really,  I  can't.  I  haven't  the  least  idea 
what  I  should  get.  Wait  till  I  have  done  a 
few  of  the  verses,  and  you  can  give  me  what 
you  please." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Fairfax;  "business  is 
business.  If  you  won't  name  a  figure,  I 
must.  Will  you  consider  a  hundred  pounds 
sufficient?" 

"  A  hundred  pounds  ! "  Henry  gasped  out, 
the  tears  almost  starting  to  his  eyes. 

Mr.  Fairfax  did  not  miss  his  frank  joy,  and 
liked  him  for  his  ingenuousness. 

"All  right,  then;  we'll  call  it  settled.  I 
shall  be  ready  for  the  verses  as  soon  as  you 
care  to  write  them." 

"Mr.  Fairfax,  I  will  tell  you  frankly  that 
this  is  a  great  deal  to  me,  and  I  thank  you 
from  my  heart." 

"Not  a  word,  not  a  word,  my  boy.  We 
want  your  verses,  we  want  your  verses.  That 's 
right,  isn't  it?  Good  verses,  good  money! 
Now  no  more  of  that,"  and  the  good  man,  in 
alarm  lest  he  should  be  thanked  further,  made 
an  abrupt  and  awkward  farewell. 

"  It  will  keep  the  lad  going  a  few  months 


A   HEAVIER   FOOTFALL         365 

anyhow,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tramped 
downstairs,  glad  that  he  'd  been  able  to  think 
of  something;  for,  while  the  scheme  was  ad- 
mirable as  an  advertisement,  and  would  more 
than  repay  Messrs.  Owens'  outlay,  its  origin 
had  been  pure  philanthropy.  Such  good  angels 
do  walk  this  world  in  the  guise  of  bulky,  quite 
unpoetic-looking  business-men. 

"  One  hundred  pounds  !  "  said  Henry,  over 
and  over  again  to  himself.  "  One  hundred 
pounds  !  What  news  for  Angel !  " 

He  had  soon  a  scheme  in  his  head  for  the 
book,  which  entirely  hit  Mr.  Fairfax's  fancy. 
It  was  to  make  a  volume  of  verse  celebrating 
each  of  the  various  departments  of  the  great 
store,  in  metres  parodying  the  styles  of  the 
old  English  ballads  and  various  poets,  ancient 
and  modern,  and  was  to  be  called,  "  Bon 
Marche  Ballads." 

"  Something  like  this,  for  example,"  said 
Henry,  a  few  days  later,  pulling  an  envelope 
covered  with  pencil-scribble  from  his  pocket. 
"This  for  the  ladies'  department, — 

"  Oh,  where  do  you  buy  your  hats,  lady  ? 

And  where  do  yon  buy  your  hose  f 
And  where  do  you  buy  your  shoes,  lady  ? 
And  where  your  underclothes  ? 


366  YOUNG   LIVES 

"Hats,  shoes,  and  stockings,  everything 

A  lady's  heart  requires, 
Quality  good,  and  prices  low, 
We  are  the  largest  buyers  ! 

"  The  stock  we  bought  on  Wednesday  last 

Is  fading  fast  away, 
To-morrow  it  may  be  too  late  — 
Oh,  come  and  buy  to-day  /  " 

Mr.  Fairfax  fairly  trumpeted  approval.  "  If 
they  're  all  as  good  as  that,"  he  said ;  "  you 
must  have  more  money.  Yes,  you  must. 
Well,  well,  —  we'll  see,  we'll  see!"  And 
when  the  "Bon  Marche  Ballads"  actually 
appeared,  the  generous  creature  insisted  on 
adding  another  fifty  pounds  to  the  cheque. 

As  many  were  afterwards  of  opinion  that 
Henry  never  again  did  such  good  work  as 
these  nonsense  rhymes,  written  thus  for  a 
frolic,  —  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,— 
and  as  copies  of  the  "Bon  Marche  Ballads" 
are  now  exceedingly  scarce,  it  may  possibly 
be  of  interest  to  quote  two  or  three  more  of 
its  preposterous  numbers.  This  is  a  lyric 
illustrative  of  cheese,  for  the  provision  depart- 
ment :  — 


A   HEAVIER   FOOTFALL         367 

"  A  re  you  fond  of  cheese  ? 
Do  you  sometimes  sigh 
For  a  really  good 
Gorgonzola  ?     Try, 

"  Try  our  one-and-ten, 

Wonderfully  rotten, 

Tasted  once,  it  never  can 

Be  again  forgotten  /  " 

Here  is  "  a  Ballad  of  Baby's  Toys  : "  — 

"  Oh,  give  me  a  toy"  the  baby  said — 

The  babe  of  three  months  old,  — 
"  Oh,  what  shall  I  buy  my  little  babee, 

With  silver  and  with  gold?  " 

"  /  would  you  buy  a  trumpet  fine, 

And  a  rocking-horse  for  me, 
And  a  biicket  and  a  spade,  mother, 

To  dig  beside  the  sea" 

"  But  where  shall  I  buy  these  pretty  things  /  " 

The  mother's  heart  inquires. 
"  Oh,  go  to  Owens ! "  cried  the  babe ; 

"  They  are  the  largest  buyers* 

The  subject  of  our  last  selection  is  "  Melton 
Mowbray,"  which  bore  beneath  its  title  due 
apologies  to  Mr.  Swinburne :  — 


368  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  Strange  pie,  that  is  almost  a  passion, 

O  passion  immoral,  for  pie  ! 
Unknown  are  the  ways  that  they  fashion, 

Unknown  and  unseen  of  the  eye, 
The  pie  that  is  -marbled  and  mottled, 

The  pie  that  digests  with  a  sigh  : 
For  all  is  not  Bass  that  is  bottled, 

And  all  is  not  pork  that  is  pie" 

Of  all  the  goodness  else  that  Henry  and 
Angel  were  to  owe  in  future  days  to  Mr.  Fair- 
fax, there  is  not  room  in  this  book  to  write. 
But  that  matters  little,  for  is  it  not  written  in 
the  Book  of  Love  ? 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

STILL  ANOTHER  CALLER 

ONE  afternoon  the  step  coming  along  the  cor- 
ridor was  almost  light  enough  to  be  Angel's, 
though  a  lover's  ear  told  him  that  hers  it  was 
not.  Once  more  that  feminine  rustic,  the  very 
whisper  of  romantic  mystery;  again  the  little 
feminine  knock. 

Daintiness  and  Myrtilla ! 

"  Well,  this  is  lovely  of  you,  Myrtilla !  But 
what  courage  !  How  did  you  ever  dare  ven- 
ture into  this  wild  and  savage  spot,  —  this 
mountain-fastness  of  Bohemia?" 

"Yes,  it  was  brave  of  me,  wasn't  it?"  said 
Myrtilla,  with  a  little  laugh,  for  which  the 
stairs  had  hardly  left  her  breath.  "  But  what 
a  climb  !  It  is  like  having  your  rooms  on  the 
Matterhorn.  I  think  I  must  write  a  magazine 
article :  '  How  I  climbed  the  fifty-thousand 
stairs,'  with  illustrations,  —  and  we  could  have 
some  quite  pretty  ones,"  she  said,  looking 
round  the  room. 

24 


370  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  That  big  skylight  is  splendid  !  As  close, 
dear  lad,  to  the  stars  as  you  can  get  it?  Are 
you  as  devoted  to  them  as  ever?  " 

"  Are  n't  you,  Myrtilla  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  they  don't  get  any  nearer,  you 
know." 

"  It 's  awfully  good  to  see  you  again,  Myr- 
tilla," said  Henry,  going  over  to  her  and  taking 
both  her  hands.  "  It 's  quite  a  long  time,  you 
know,  since  we  had  a  talk.  It  was  a  sweet 
thought  of  you  to  come.  You  '11  have  some 
tea,  won't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  love  to  see  you  make  tea. 
Bachelors  always  make  such  good  tea.  What 
pretty  cups  !  My  word,  we  are  dainty !  I  sup- 
pose it  was  Esther  bought  them  for  you  ?" 

Henry  detected  the  little  trap  and  smiled. 
No,  it  had  n't  been  Esther. 

"No?  Someone  else  then?  eh!  I  think  I 
can  guess  her  name.  It  was  mean  of  you  not  to 
tell  me  about  her,  Henry.  I  hear  she  's  called 
Angel,  and  that  she  looks  like  one.  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen  her  before  I  went  away." 

"  Going  away,  Myrtilla?  why,  where?  I've 
heard  nothing  of  it.  Tell  me  about  it." 

The  atmosphere  perceptibly  darkened  with 
the  thought  of  Williamson. 


STILL   ANOTHER   CALLER        371 

"  Well !  "  she  said,  in  the  little  airy  melo- 
dious way  she  had  when  she  was  telling  some- 
thing particularly  unhappy  about  herself —  a 
sort  of  harpsichord  bravado  —  "  Well,  you 
know,  he  's  taken  to  fancying  himself  seriously 
ill  lately,  and  the  doctors  have  aided  and 
abetted  him ;  and  so  we  're  going  to  Davos 
Platz,  or  some  such  health-wilderness  —  and 
well,  that 's  all !  " 

"And  you  I  suppose  are  to  nurse  the  —  to 
nurse  him?"  said  Henry,  savagely. 

"  Hush,  lad  !  It 's  no  use,  not  a  bit!  You 
won't  help  me  that  way,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  kindly  on  his,  and  her  eyes  growing 
bright  with  suppressed  tears. 

"  It 's  a  shame,  nevertheless,  Myrtilla,  a  cruel 
shame !  " 

"  You  'd  like  to  say  it  was  a  something-else 
shame,  would  n't  you,  dear  boy?  Well,  you 
can,  if  you  like :  but  then  you  must  say  no 
more.  And  if  you  really  want  to  help  me,  you 
shall  send  me  a  long  letter  now  and  again,  with 
some  of  your  new  poems  enclosed  ;  and  tell  me 
what  new  books  are  worth  sending  for?  Will 
you  do  that?" 

"Of  course,  I  will.  That's  precious  little 
to  do  anyhow." 


372  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  It 's  a  good  deal,  really.  But  be  sure  you 
do  it." 

"  And,  of  course,  you  '11  write  to  me  some- 
times. I  don't  think  you  know  yet  what  your 
letters  are  to  me.  I  never  work  so  well  as 
when  I  've  had  a  letter  from  you." 

"  Really,  dear  lad,  I  don't  fancy  you  know 
how  happy  that  makes  me  to  hear." 

"  Yes,  you  take  just  the  sort  of  interest  in 
my  work  I  want,  and  that  no  one  else  takes." 

"  Not  even  Angel?  "   said  Myrtilla,  slily. 

"  Angel,  bless  her,  loves  my  work ;  and  is  a 
brave  little  critic  of  it;  but  then  it  isn't  dis- 
loyal to  her  to  say  that  she  does  n't  know  as 
much  as  you.  Besides,  she  does  n't  approach 
it  in  quite  the  same  way.  She  cares  for  it,  first, 
because  it  is  mine,  and  only  secondly  for  its 
own  sake.  Now  you  care  for  it  just  for  what 
it  is  —  " 

"  I  care  for  it,  certainly,  for  what  it 's  going 
to  be,"  said  Myrtilla,  making  one  of  those 
honest  distinctions  which  made  her  opinion  so 
stimulating  to  Henry. 

"  Yes,  there  you  are.  You  're  artistically 
ambitious  for  me ;  you  know  what  I  want  to  do, 
even  before  I  know  myself.  That's  why 
you  're  so  good  for  me.  No  one  but  you  is 


STILL   ANOTHER   CALLER       373 

that  for  me ;  and  —  poor  stuff  as  I  know  it  is — 
I  never  write  a  word  without  wondering  what 
you  will  think  of  it." 

"  You  're  sure  it 's  quite  true,"  said  Myrtilla ; 
"  don't  say  so  if  it  is  n't.  Because  you  know 
you  're  saying  what  I  care  most  to  hear,  per- 
haps, of  anything  you  could  say.  You  know 
how  I  love  literature,  and  —  well,  you  know  too 
how  fond  I  am  of  you,  dear  lad,  don't  you  ?  " 

Literary  criticism  had  kindled  into  emotion  ; 
and  Henry  bent  down  and  kissed  Myrtilla's 
hand.  In  return  she  let  her  hand  rest  a 
moment  lightly  on  his  hair,  and  then,  rather 
spasmodically,  turned  to  remark  on  his  book- 
shelves with  suspicious  energy. 

At  that  moment  another  step  was  heard  in 
the  corridor,  again  feminine.  Henry  knew  it 
for  Angel's ;  and  it  may  be  that  his  expression 
grew  a  shade  embarrassed,  as  he  said : 

"  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  introduce  you 
to  Angel  after  all  —  for  I  think  this  is  she 
coming  along  the  passage." 

As  Henry  opened  the  door,  Angel  was  on 
the  point  of  throwing  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  when,  noticing  a  certain  constraint  in  his 
manner  of  greeting,  she  realised  that  he  was 
not  alone. 


3/4  YOUNG  LIVES 

"  We  were  just  talking  of  you,  dear,"  said 
Henry.  "  This  is  my  friend,  Mrs.  Williamson, 
— '  Myrtilla,'  of  whom  you  've  often  heard  me 
speak." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  Ve  often  heard  of  Mrs.  William- 
son," said  Angel,  not  of  course  suffering  the 
irony  of  her  thought  to  escape  into  her 
voice. 

"  And  I  Ve  heard  no  less  of  Miss  Flower," 
said  Mrs.  Williamson,  "  not  indeed  from  this 
faithless  boy  here,  —  for  I  have  n't  seen  him 
for  so  long  that  I  Ve  had  to  humble  myself  at 
last  and  call,  —  but  from  Esther." 

Myrtilla  loved  the  transparent  face,  pulsing 
with  light,  flushing  or  fading  with  her  varying 
mood,  answering  with  exquisite  delicacy  to 
any  advance  and  retreat  of  the  soul  within. 
But  an  invincible  prejudice,  or  perhaps  rather 
fear,  shut  Angel's  eyes  from  the  appreciation 
of  Myrtilla.  She  was  sweet  and  beautiful,  but 
to  the  child  that  Angel  still  was  she  suggested 
malign  artifice.  Angel  looked  at  her  as  an 
imaginative  child  looks  at  the  moon,  with 
suspicion. 

So,  in  spite  of  Myrtilla's  efforts  to  make 
friends,  the  conversation  sustained  a  distinct 
loss  in  sprightliness  by  Angel's  arrival. 


STILL  ANOTHER   CALLER       375 

Myrtilla,  perhaps  divining  a  little  of  the 
truth,  rose  to  go. 

"  Well,  I  'm  afraid  it 's  quite  a  long  good- 
bye," she  said. 

"  Oh,  you  're  going  away?  "  said  Angel,  with 
a  shade  of  relief  involuntarily  in  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,  perhaps  before  we  meet  again,  you 
and  Henry  will  be  married.  I  'm  sure  I  sin- 
cerely hope  so." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Angel,  somewhat  coldly. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Henry,"  said  Myrtilla,  - 
it  was  rather  a  strangled  good-bye,  —  and  then, 
in  an  evil  moment,  she  caught  sight  of  the 
Dante's  head  which,  hidden  in  a  recess,  she 
had  not  noticed  before.  "  I  see  you  're  still 
faithful  to  the  Dante,"  she  said  ;  "  that 's  sweet 
of  you,  —  good-bye,  good-bye,  Miss  Flower, 
Angel,  perhaps  you  '11  let  me  say,  good- 
bye." 

When  she  had  gone  there  seemed  a  curious 
constraint  in  the  air.  You  might  have  said 
that  the  consistency  of  the  air  had  been 
doubled.  Gravitation  was  at  least  twice  as 
many  pounds  as  usual  to  the  square  inch. 
Every  little  movement  seemed  heavy  as  though 
the  medium  had  been  water  instead  of  air. 
As  Henry  raised  his  hands  to  help  Angel  off 


376  YOUNG  LIVES 

with  her  jacket,  they  seemed  weighted  with 
lead. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Angel,  "  I  won't  take 
it  off.  I  can't  stay  long." 

"  Why,  dear,  what  do  you  mean?  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  stay  the  evening  with  me. 
I  Ve  quite  a  long  new  chapter  to  read  to  you." 

"  I  'm  sorry,  Henry,  —  but  I  find  I  can't." 

"  Why,  dear,  how's  that?  Won't  you  tell 
me  the  reason?  Has  anything  happened?  " 

Angel  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
with  her  face  as  firmly  miserable  as  she  could 
make  it. 

"Won't  you  tell  me?"  Henry  pleaded. 
"Won't  you  speak  to  me?  Come,  dear  — 
what's  the  matter?" 

"  You  know  well  enough,  Henry,  what 's  the 
matter !  "  came  an  unexpected  flash  of  speech. 

"  Indeed,  I  don't.  I  know  of  no  reason  what- 
ever. How  should  I?" 

"  Well,  then,  Mrs.  Williamson 's  the  matter ! 
— '  Myrtilla,'  as  you  call  her.  Something  told 
me  it  was  like  this  all  along,  though  I  could  n't 
bear  to  doubt  you,  and  so  I  put  it  away.  I 
wonder  how  often  she 's  been  here  when  I  have 
known  nothing  about  it." 

"  This  is  the  very  first  time  she  has  ever  set 


STILL  ANOTHER   CALLER        377 

foot  in  these  rooms,"  said  Henry,  growing  cold 
in  his  turn.  "  I  '11  give  you  my  word  of  honour, 
if  you  need  it." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more.  I  'm  going. 
Good-bye." 

"Going,  Angel?"  said  Henry,  standing  be- 
tween her  and  the  door.  "  What  can  you 
mean?  See  now,  —  give  your  brains  a  chance! 
You  're  not  thinking  in  the  least.  You  Ve 
just  let  yourself  go  —  for  no  reason  at  all. 
You  '11  be  sorry  to-morrow." 

"  Reason  enough,  I  should  think,  when  I  find 
that  you  love  another  woman  !  " 

"I  love  Myrtilla  Williamson!  It's  a  lie, 
Angel  —  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say 
it.  It 's  unworthy  of  you." 

"Why  have  you  never  told  me  then  who 
made  that  sketch  of  Dante  for  you?  I  sup- 
pose I  should  never  have  known,  if  she  had  n't 
let  it  out  I  asked  you  once,  but  you  put  me 
off." 

Henry  had  indeed  prevaricated,  for  Angel 
had  chanced  to  ask  him  just  after  Myrtilla's 
letter  about  his  poems. 

"  Well,  I  '11  be  frank,"  said  Henry.  "  I  did  n't 
tell  you,  just  because  I  feared  an  unreasonable 
scene  like  this  —  " 


378  YOUNG   LIVES 

"  If  there  had  been  nothing  in  it,  there  was 
nothing  to  fear ;  and,  in  any  case,  why  should 
she  paint  pictures  for  you,  if  she  does  n't  care 
for  you? —  No,  I'm  going.  Nothing  will 
persuade  me  otherwise.  Henry,  please  let 
pass,  if  you  're  a  gentleman  —  "and  poor  little 
Angel's  face  fairly  flamed.  "  No  power  on 
earth  will  keep  me  here  — " 

"  All  right,  Angel  — "  and  Henry  let  her 
have  her  way.  Her  feet  echoed  down  the  stairs, 
further  and  further  away.  She  was  gone ;  and 
Henry  spent  that  evening  in  torturingly  imagin- 
ing every  kind  of  accident  that  might  happen 
to  her  on  the  way  home.  Every  hour  he  ex- 
pected to  be  suddenly  called  to  look  at  her 
dead  body  —  his  work.  And  so  the  night 
passed,  and  the  morning  dawned  in  agony.  So 
went  the  whole  of  the  next  day,  for  he  could 
be  proud  too  —  and  the  fault  had  been  hers. 

Thus  they  sat  apart  for  three  days,  poles  of 
determined  silence.  And  then  at  last,  on  the 
evening  of  the  third  day,  Henry,  who  was  half 
beside  himself  with  suspense,  heard,  with  wild 
thankfulness,  once  more  the  little  step  in  the 
passage  —  it  seemed  fainter,  he  thought,  and 
dragged  a  little,  and  the  knock  at  the  door  was 
like  a  ghost's. 


STILL  ANOTHER   CALLER       379 

There,  with  a  wan  smile,  Angel  stood ;  and 
with  joy,  wordless  because  unspeakable,  they 
fell  almost  like  dead  things  into  each  other's 
arms.  For  an  hour  they  sat  thus,  and  never 
spoke  a  word,  only  stroking  each  other's  hands 
and  hair.  It  was  so  good  for  each  to  know 
that  the  other  was  alive.  It  took  so  long  for 
the  stored  agony  in  the  nerves  to  relax. 

"  I  have  n't  eaten  a  morsel  since  Wednesday," 
said  Angel,  at  last. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Henry. 

"  Henry,  dear,  I  'm  sorry.  I  know  now  I  was 
wrong.  I  give  you  my  word  never  to  doubt  you 
again." 

"  Thank  you,  Angel.  Don't  let  us  even  think 
of  it  any  more." 

"  I  couldn't  live  through  it  again,  darling." 

"  But  it  can  never  happen  any  more,  can  it?  " 

"  No  !  — but  —  if  you  ever  love  any  woman 
better  than  you  love  me,  you  '11  tell  me,  won't 
you?  I  could  bear  that  better  than  to  be 
deceived." 

"  Yes,  Angel,  I  promise  to  tell  you." 

"Well,  we're  really  happy  again  now  —  are 
we?  I  can  hardly  believe  it  — 

"  You  did  n't  see  me  outside  your  house  last 
night,  did  you  ?  " 


38o  YOUNG  LIVES 

"Henry!" 

"Yes,  I  was  there.  And  I  watched  you 
carry  the  light  into  your  bed-room,  and  when 
you  came  to  the  window  to  draw  down  the 
blind,  I  thought  you  must  have  seen  me.  Yes, 
I  waited  and  waited,  till  I  saw  the  light  go  out 
and  long  after — " 

"  Oh,  Henry  —  you  do  love  me  then?" 

"  And  we  do  know  how  to  hate  each  other 
sometimes,  don't  we,  child?  "  said  Henry,  laugh- 
ing into  Angel's  eyes,  all  rainbows  and  tears. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE  END  OF  A  BEGINNING 

AND  now  blow,  all  ye  trumpets,  and,  all  ye 
organs,  tremble  with  exultant  sound  !  Bring 
forth  the  harp,  and  the  psaltry,  and  the 
sackbut!  For  the  long  winter  of  waiting 
is  at  an  end,  and  Mike  is  flying  north  to 
fetch  his  bride.  Now  are  the  walls  of 
heaven  built  four-square,  and  to-day  was 
the  roof-beam  hung  with  garlands.  Tis 
but  a  small  heaven,  yet  is  it  big  enough 
for  two,  —  and  Mike  is  flying  north,  flying 
north,  through  the  midnight,  to  fetch  his 
bride. 

Henry  and  the  morning  meet  him  at  Tyre. 
Blessings  on  his  little  wrinkled  face !  The 
wrinkles  are  deeper  and  sweeter  by  a  year's 
hard  work.  He  has  laughed  with  them  every 
night  for  full  twelve  months,  laughed  to  make 
others  laugh.  To-day  he  shall  laugh  for  him- 


382  YOUNG   LIVES 

self  alone.  The  very  river  seems  glad,  and 
tosses  its  shaggy  waves  like  a  faithful  dog; 
and  over  yonder  in  Sidon,  where  the  sun  is 
building  a  shrine  of  gold  and  pearl,  Esther, 
sleepless  too,  all  night,  waits  at  a  window  like 
the  morning-star. 

Oh,  Mike!  Mike!  Mike!  is  it  you  at 
last? 

Oh,  Esther,  Esther,  is  it  you  ? 

Their  faces  were  so  bright,  as  they  gazed  at 
each  other,  that  it  seemed  they  might  change 
to  stars  and  wing  together  away  up  into  the 
morning.  Henry  snatched  one  look  at  the 
brightness  and  turned  away. 

"  She  looked  like  a  spirit ! "  said  Mike,  as 
they  met  again  further  along  the  road. 

"  He  looked  like  a  little  angel,"  said  Esther, 
as  she  threw  herself  into  Dot's  sympathetic 
arms. 

A  few  miles  from  Sidon  there  stood  an  old 
church,  dim  with  memories,  in  a  churchyard 
mossy  with  many  graves.  It  was  hither  some 
few  hours  after  that  unwonted  carriages  were 
driving  through  the  snow  of  that  happy  win- 
ter's day.  In  one  of  them  Esther  and  Henry 
were  sitting,  —  Esther  apparelled  in  —  but 
here  the  local  papers  shall  speak  for  us: 


THE   END   OF   A   BEGINNING     383 

"  The  bride,"  it  said,  "  was  attired  in  a  dress 
of  grey  velvet  trimmed  with  beaver,  and  a 
large  picturesque  hat  with  feathers  to  match ; 
she  carried  a  bouquet  of  white  chrysanthe- 
mums and  hyacinths." 

"  The  very  earth  has  put  on  white  to  be 
your  bridesmaid !  "  said  Henry,  looking  out  on 
the  sunlit  snow. 

"  After  all,  though,  of  course,  I  'm  sad 
in  one  way,"  said  Esther,  more  practical 
in  her  felicitations,  "  I  'm  glad  in  another 
that  father  would  n't  give  me  away.  For 
it  was  really  you  who  gave  me  to  Mike  long 
ago;  wasn't  it?  —  and  so  it's  only  as  it 
should  be  that  you  should  give  me  to  him 
to-day." 

"You'll  never  forget  what  we've  been  to 
each  other?" 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"  Yes,  but  our  love  has  no  organs  and 
presents  and  prayer-books  to  bind  it  to- 
gether." 

"  Do  you  think  it  needs  it?" 

"  Of  course  not !  But  it  would  be  fun  for 
us  too  some  day  to  have  a  marriage.  Why 
should  only  one  kind  of  love  have  its  marriage 
ceremony?  When  Mike's  and  your  wedding 


384  YOUNG  LIVES 

is  over,  let's  tell  him  that  we're  going  to  send 
out  cards  for  ours  !  " 

"  All  right.  What  form  shall  the  ceremony 
take  —  Parfait  Amour  ?  " 

"  You  have  n't  forgotten?  " 

"  I  shall  forget  just  the  second  after  you  — 
not  before  —  and,  no,  I  won't  be  mean,  I  '11 
not  even  forget  you  then." 

"  Kiss  me,  Esther,"  said  Henry. 

"  Kiss  me  again,  Esther,"  he  said.  "  Do  you 
remember?  " 

"  The  cake  and  the  beating?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  our  marriage." 

When  all  the  glory  of  that  happy  day  hung 
in  crimson  low  down  in  the  west,  like  a  chariot 
of  fire  in  which  Mike  and  Esther  were  speed- 
ing to  their  paradise,  Henry  walked  with 
Angel,  homeward  through  the  streets  of  Tyre, 
solemn  with  sunset.  In  both  that  happy  day 
still  lived  like  music  richly  dying. 

"  Well,"  said  Angel,  in  words  far  too  practi- 
cal for  such  a  sunset,  "  I  am  so  glad  it  all  went 
off  so  well.  Poor  dear  Mrs.  Mesurier,  how 
bonny  she  looked !  And  your  dear  old  Aunt 
Tipping !  Fancy  her  hiding  there  in  the 
church  —  " 


THE   END   OF   A  BEGINNING     385 

"Of  course  we'd  asked  her,"  said  Henry; 
"  but,  poor  old  thing,  she  did  n't  feel  grand 
enough,  as  she  would  say,  to  come  pub- 
licly." 

"And  your  poor  father!  Fancy  him  com- 
ing home  for  the  lunch  like  that ! " 

"  After  all,  it  was  logical  of  him,"  said 
Henry.  "  I  suppose  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  resist  as  long  as  it  was 
any  use,  and  after  that  —  gracefully  give  in. 
And  he  was  always  fond  of  Mike." 

"  But  did  n't  Esther  cry,  when  he  kissed 
her,  and  said  that,  since  she'd  chosen  Mike, 
he  supposed  he  must  choose  him  too.  And 
Mike  was  as  good  as  crying  too?" 

"  I  think  every  one  was.  Poor  mother  was 
just  a  mop." 

"  Well,  they  're  nearly  home  by  now,  I 
suppose." 

"  Yes,  another  half-hour  or  so." 

"  Oh,  Henry,  fancy !  How  wonderful  for 
them  !  God  bless  them.  I  am  glad  !  " 

"  I  wonder  when  \ve  shall  get  our  home," 
said  Henry,  presently. 

"  Oh,  Henry,  never  mind  us  !  I  can't  think 
of  any  one  but  them  to-day." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  selfish  — 
25 


386  YOUNG   LIVES 

I  was  only  wondering  how  long  you  'd  be  wil- 
ling to  wait  for  me  ?  " 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  say  '  for  ever !  '  Would 
that  make  you  happy?  " 

"  Well,  I  think,  dear  —  I  might  perhaps 
arrange  things  by  then." 


THE  END 


n  V-  *-°s 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


-35m-7,'63(D8634s4)4  28° 


UCLA-Coll*fl«  Library 

PR  4881  Y52 


Library 


L  005  717  363  5 


001  168  203     6 


